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THE ITE BR ROVER. 


—oR— 


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TRE LOVRLY MAID OF LOUISIANA. 


A ROMANCE OF THE WILD FOREST. 





LPPPPALS 


BY Bie wv. CH. ROBINSON, 


LDL LWAMLLJLF GSLPGFIS SSFP LIS SNININS NE NINA NDVI Nb 








NEW YORK: 
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(ER WHITE ROVER.” 


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-QHAPTER I. 


THE TUNTER—CAPTAIN LESAGE=A LIBERAL OFFER. 


Tt was the year 172-. 
French colony. In 1718, by direction of de 
Bienville, fifty log huts had been erected on the 
west bank of the Mississippi river, to which “the 
name of New Orleans had been given in com- 
pliment to the Duke of Orleans. . Previous to 
that date, the site where the Crescent City now 
stands had been covered with a dense forest, in 
which the red man hunted his game and reared 
his lodge. 

A few years had not greatly changed the as- 
pect of the new settlement. It only numbered 
about two hundred cabins, although it had be- 
come the seat of government—it having been 
transferred thither from Biloxi after considera- 
ble discussion in regard to the propriety of the 
measure. 

The population of New Orleans at the time 
we have chosen for thé date of our story, was 
composed of all kinds of people; not a small 
part of them being convicts shipped from France 
te hasten the settlement of the country, and to 
free prisons already overflowing. 


Louisiana was then a | 


De Bienville, the governor, was a bold and 
humane man, much esteemed by those under his 
authority. 

With this brief Be set of the French set- 
tlement on the banks of the Mississippi, in 172-, 
we shall proceed at once to the opening scenes 
of our story. 

It was a mild evening in the latter part of 
June. The sunlight had fallen from the green 
leaves of the forest, and lingered no longer on 
the summits of the western hills. 

At that calm and delightful hour, the figure 
of a man might have been seen standing 
thoughtfully upon the margin of Lake Ponchar- 
trains—a beautiful sheet of water not far from 
the new settlement. In person he was tall and 
exceedingly muscular.. Judging from his ap- 
pearance, he had not seen less than thirty sum- 
mers—-summers that had written lines of care 
upon his brow, and whose suns had left-a deep 
brown upon his’ face. | 

He could not have been called handsome, or 
even good-lodking, for there was something sin- 


ister in his expression—the nether lip — 
with too much pride, the eyes were too mi : 


their glance, and the forehead es contrac “ 
ar 


ed into a perpetual frown. — ‘fe is curling be: 


Ps 


(one might suppose) had been left entirely to s 
He 


nature from the period: of its earliest 
ment ; and the same might be said, w 
show of plausibility, in regard to his hair, which 
reached quite to his shoulders. 

The individual’s dress, to whom the reader’s 
attention has been ealled, consisted of a hunting 
-frock of dressed deer skin, breeches of the same, 
Indian moccasins, and a common foraging cap, 
probably manufactured by himself from the skins 
of the musk-rat, or the coon. 

A powder-horn ornamented with various de- 
vices, and a ball-pouch, were suspended from 
his shoulders and hung at his side, where a hunt- 
ing knife of large size was also visible, thrust 
beneath the leathern thong which encircled his 
waist. ; 

In his right hand the hunter held a double- 
barrelled rifle, which few men of the present de- 
generate age would wish to carry, on account of 
its great weight. 

Suddenly the listless attitude of the hunter 
changed. He had heard the sound of footsteps 
in the forest near him. 

‘* Moran, I have been seeking you,”’ said a 
voice ; and the next moment a man of middling 
stature, wearing the uniform of a French officer, 
stood beside the person we have been describing 

‘What is your wish?’ asked Moran, coldly. 

‘*Moran,’’ returned the other, playing care- 
lessly with the hilt of his sword, ‘‘ we have met 
before on several occasions.”’ 

‘My memory is very good, Captain Lesage ; 
you might have spared yourself the trouble of 
making that remark,” replied Moran, gruffly. 

‘‘T am something of a physiognomist, my 
good friend,’”’ continued Lesage. ‘I always 
make a study of the human face, in order to 
learn something of the character of its posses- 
sor.” 

‘‘ And you have been studying me, captain ?”’ 
said Moran, with a singular curl of his nether 
lip, of which mention has already been made. 









‘* You are right, Pierre Moran. I have stud- 
ied you, and you are the very man I wish for 
under existing circumstances.” 

‘Go on, Lesage,”’ returned Moran. 

_»‘* You are a bold and daring fellow; blest 
with a determined will, a strong hand ‘ai stea- 
dy nerves, and love of adventures of all kinds.”’ 

‘“aerell.”” 

‘“‘Ifaman,’’ resumed Lesage, in an insinu- 
ating voice, ‘‘ desired to have a bold and some- 
what difficult piece of work executed in a quick 
and silent kind of way, you would be the man 
to do it, provided that your services were com- 
pensated in a liberal manner ; that is, in pro- 
portion to the risk incurred.” 

For a moment a deeper frown than usual 
was visible upon the forehead of Pierre Moran ; 
but when Lesage looked up into his face for an 
answer, it had passed away. 

‘You are very shrewd, captain,” said the 
hunter, with asmile. “ But go on ; let me hear 
what you desire. Speak without reserve.” 

‘I will do so,”’ returned Lesage. ‘‘It is 
sometimes the case, my worthy friend, that a 
person has an enemy ; one whom he utterly de- 
spises.”’ 

«That's very true, captain.” 

“«* Well; cannot you conceive that a man who 
has such an enemy might possibly wish to—’’ 

“* Get = out of sight,’? added Moran. 

‘You comprehend me, exactly. I see that 
I have not mistaken my man. ‘To be plain with 
you, I have an enemy of this description, whom 
I wish to remove from my path. He is very 
dangerous ; he stands between me and my hopes 
and purposes. I have gold, Pierre Moran’; 3 you 
are a good shot !” 

Lesage paused and played nervously "with his 
sword hilt. | 

‘‘T comprehend,’’ answered the hunter, bit- 
ing his lip. x 

‘“Name your reward,’ added Lesage, in a 
voice less calm than that which he had at first 
assumed. | 

‘«« You wear a sword, captain, why not avenge 
your own wrongs, and save your gold?” said 
Moran, looking contemptuously at Lesage. 


9) 


‘‘T do not choose to. 
sons that make me anxious to entrust my ven- 
geance to the hands of another ; and you are the 
man I have selected.” 

“You do me honor, Lesage,’”’ replied the 
hunter, calmly. 

‘“‘ The young man whose existence endangers 
my happiness, is in the habit of hunting about 
the borders of this lake.”’ 

‘‘His name, Lesage ?”’ 

‘‘T will whisper it, lest these trees should 
have ears; it is ” and the captain whis- 
pered the name as he had promised. 

‘“* Did you hear ?” 

‘« Perfectly well, captain ; but how am I to 
know him ?”’ 

"© That will be the easiest thing in the world. 
I will describe him. He is six feet in height, 
well formed, straight as an arrow, lithe as an In- 
dian, and the ladies call him handsome.. He is 
poor as a beggar and proud as a prince. His 
complexion is dark, his eyes are black, his hair 
of the same color, and it is barely possible that 
a little native blood circulates in his veins. He 
mingles freely with the Indians, and seems to 
have some influence among them.” 

«You say he is fond of hunting ?”’ 

‘It is his principal employment. He is 
quite as much at home in the woods as the ab- 
origines themselves. He is an excellent shot, 
and carries a rifle, which may, for aught I know, 
be twin brother to your own. Do you think 
you should know him, Moran ?”’ 

“Yes, captain.”’ 

‘Well; that man stands in my way,”’ con- 
tinued Lesage, while his small gray eyes flashed 
with intense hatred. ‘‘ When you will assure 
‘me—and bring proofs of what you affirm—that 
he is removed from my path, two hundred pounds 
will be subject to your order.”’ 

‘“* Liberal, upon my word !’’ exclaimed Mo- 
ran, with another curl of that sinister nether lip. 

‘Ts there more to say on this subject ?”’ ask- 
ed Lesage, anxiously. 








THE WHITE Wd 9 
There are many rea-| ‘‘ No more, captain.” : 


‘“«Then we understand each other.”’ 
»* Perfectly.” 


- 


_ ‘Two hundred pounds, Moran.” 


 “*T comprehend.” 

‘* Tt’s settled, then ?’’ 

‘* Entirely.” 

**You know where I am to be found ?” 

‘“‘T.do; good night.” 

‘Au revoir. I hope we shall meet again, 
soon.”” And Lesage turned on his heel and 
walked away. gis. 

“ Senseless idiot!’ said the hunter to,him- 
self when the form of Lesage had disappeared 
among the trees. ‘‘A physiognomist indeed ! 
smooth-tongued dissembler! for once you have 
reckoned without your host. When Pierre Mo- 
ran imbrues his hands in the blood of bis fellow- 
man, save in self-defence, may he never live to y 
wash out the foul stain, but pass to judgment 
with all his sins upon his head. Go, Lesage, 
and find some other arm to slay one whom you 
dare not meet on equal terms. Pierre Moran 
can meet the red man two to one, and live 
through the fight ; he can bring down the pan- 
ther at two hundred yards, or he can battle suc- 
cessfully with the howling wolf, but a murder he 
cannot do ;” and then he added ina lower tone, 
‘*it was well for him that he found Pierre Mo- 
ran in a calm and patient mood.’’ 

With these words the hunter shouldered his 
rifle and moved away along the margin of the 
lake. The moon had arisen, and her silvery 
rays were reflected softly upon the glassy waters. 
Tempted by the calm beauty of Ponchartrain, 
Pierre Moran paused occasionally in his solitary 
walk, to contemplate its sleeping depths. 

At length he turned from the lake and enter- 
ed adark dingle upon the right. Finding a 
spot suitable for the purpose, he gathered dry 
sticks and leaves, and by means of some powder 
and a flint set the heap on fire; soon a bright 
blaze lighted up the dingle. 





CHAPTER II. 


THE SURPRISE—-A PRISONER—-THE RESCUE—-THE WHITE ROVER. 


PrerrE Moran laid down his rifle, spread 
his blanket upon the ground, and lighted his 
pipe. Seating himself by the cheerful blaze, 
column after column of the fragrant smoke went 
curling upward, and he watched the fantastic 
wreaths as they dissolved and disappeared. 

Suddenly, a majestic figure seemed to rise up 
out of the earth and stand beside Pierre Moran. 
The latter sprang to his feet and grasped his 
hunting-knife, for the foot of the intruder was 
planted firmly upon his rifle. 

‘‘ What does the pale face do here ?”’ asked 
the intruder in a stern yoice. ‘‘ Does he not 
know that these great forests, these fair lakes, 
and these broad rivers belong to the red man ?”’ 

‘The red man and the white are brothers,”’ 
replied Moran, calmly. 

‘* Tis false !’’ exclaimed the Indian, fiercely. 
‘« They never were brothers, and they never can 
be. They are two distinct races of people, and 
the Great i? has ted eternal enmity be- 
tween them.” 

‘‘That matters little tome,’”’ replied Pierre. 
‘‘T ask no favors of white man or red. The 


forest is my home, and I will not be driven from 
it though every tree conceal an enemy thirsting 
for my blood. Ifyou come to intimidate me 
with great words, you will lose your labor ; for 
the heart of Pierre Moran never pulsated with 
fear.”’ 

The Indian drew up his majestic figure to its ’ 
greatest height; he raised his red hand and 
pointed his long fingers fixedly at Moran, while 
his eyes flashed like meteors. 

«Tis proudly spoken, bold ae face ; but it 
avails not—you are a prisoner.” 

‘‘Who are you?” asked Moran, somewhat 
impatiently. 

‘¢T am Onalaska, the leader of the allied na- 
tions,’’ replied the red man, with a kingly wave 
of the hand. ‘‘ The hatchet is dug up and will 
never be buried. The Chickasaws are burning 
to avenge their wrongs ; they have ¢ommunica- 
ted the same contagious fire to the Choctaws, 
the Natchez and the Mobilians. In a few 
months the white man will be swept from the 
great valley of the Mississippi. Their cabin- 
fires will be extinguished forever, and their 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


dwellings shall become heaps of ruins. 
fate of the Long Knives* is sealed.” 

‘This is a new movement,” said Pierre, 
much wrought upon by the words of the proud 
chieftain. 

‘‘ Onalaska has not been idle ; he has been 
successful. The time has come to strike a blow 
which shall send terror to the hearts of the 
French dogs.”’ 

‘« Proud Indian, Pierre Moran is a French- 
man,’ said the hunter, sternly. 

«« And a prisoner,” added the chieftain, with 
a grim smile. 

«Ts not true. Ido not yield myself a pris- 
oner. ‘There is not a single arm that can con- 
quer Pierre Moran, in.a hand to hand encoun- 
-ter, to be found between the source of the 
great river and its mouth.” 

As the athletic hunter spoke, he drew his 
knife from its sheath, and struck his left foot 
fiercely upon the ground a little in advance of 
the right. | 

‘‘ Haughty savage, Pierre Moran is ready ! 
Come on!” 

The Indian smiled scornfully. 

‘<T have only to shout the battle-cry of the 
Chickasaws, to bring an hundred warriors upon 
you,” he said, slowly. ‘‘ Pale face, put back 
your knife ; to fight would be madness.”’ 

Moran placed his knife in its sheath. 

‘«‘ What do you intend to do with me?” he 
asked, fixing his eyes earnestly upon Onalaska. 

‘* My warriors shall decide.” 

*T thought I was talking with a great chief,” 
returned Pierre, contemptuously. 

“« And so you are; but a wise leader will al- 
ways please his warriors when he can.”’ 

‘¢ Listen to me,” replied the hunter. ‘‘ I will 
tell you how we may decide this matter. You 
are strong and braye as any of your warriors. 
Draw your hunting-knife and meet me on equal 
terms, foot to foot, breast to breast, and hand to 
hand. He that is vanquished in the fight, let 
him be at the mercy of his victor. Let your 
braves remain where they are, and not put forth 





» * The whites were frequently called “ Long Knives” 
by the Indians, on account of their swords. 


Il 


The | their hands to decide the contest. Speak, On- 
alaska ; is not the offer fair ?”’ 
‘No, it isnot,’’ replied Onalaska. ‘‘I am 


a great war-chief—the leader of the allied na- 
tions, and you are without rank or title—a 
nameless hunter. My life belongs to my peo- 
ple, and why should I put it in peril, and thus 
endanger my great enterprise? The idea is 
foolish, and not to be thought of. Why should 
[risk so much when you are already in my 
power? Pale face, when you fight Onalaska, 
it must be in battle.’’ 

‘« Listen once again, proud savage,’ 
ued Pierre Moran. ‘‘If you will not meet me 
in the manner proposed, bring me your mighti- 
est warrior, and I will try my strength and skill 
with him in any way he may choose, and if I 


>" eontin- 


conquer I will be free.’’ ’ 

For reply the chief uttered the Chickasaw 
war-cry, and instantly a hundred painted war- 
riors. showed their grim faces about the fire 
which the hunter had kindled. 

‘The white hunter is a captive ; what will 
my braves do with him?” said Onalaska. 

There was a hurried consultation among the 
warriors. At length a chief stepped forward 
and said : 

‘* Let the pale face die according to the cus- 
tom of the red man.”’ 

‘‘ He has a brave heart,’ said Onalaska. 

«¢ Then he will die like a man, and not likea 
squaw,’’ replied the chief who had spoken. 

‘“‘ He has never fought against our people,” 
continued Onalaska. 

‘‘ Let him perish then, before he slays any 
of our warriors, as other Frenchmen have done,”’ 
rejoined the chief. . 

Onalaska said no more ; he folded his arms 
and allowed his people to have their own way 
in regard to the captive. Preparations were in- 
stantly made to put him to death, He was 
bound. firmly +o a tree. Dry fagots were 
brought and heaped about him. A circle was 
formed about the condemned, and the death- 
dance celebrated. The dingle, so quiet an hour 
before, resounded with terrific shouts. 


[SEE ENGRAVING. | 


12 


Pierre Moran prayed silently for strength 
and courage, and resigned himself to his fate. 
Savage eyes flashed upon him, and sharp steel 
blades menaced him. 

The stout heart of Pierre Moran sank within 
him. He beheld all the avenues of hope closed 
forever. | * 

A tall savage stepped forward, waving a fiery 
brand that was to light the pile. He shook the 
blazing fagot on high, and laughed in fiendish 
triumph ; then he fired the combustible heap in 
several places, and the flames leaped upward. 

At that fearful ‘crisis, there was a sudden 
commotion among the warriors ; they gave way 
to the right and left, and a young white man 
quickly dashed through the broken circle, hurl- 
ed back the savage who held the burning brand, 
and scattered the blazing fagots like straw in all 
directions ; then drawing a hunting knife from 
his belt, he severed the bonds of Pierre Moran 
in an instant. 

The Chickasaws grasped their weapons and 
frowned angrily upon the white man. 

The deliverer of Pierre turned towards them, 
and waving his hand for silence and attention, 
addressed them as follows : 

‘« This man is my friend. If you are resolvy- 
ed upon his destruction, you must first slay me ; 
for not one of you shall strike a blow at his life 
until you strike through my body. I appeal to 
your great chief. Onalaska, shalla man be 
slain because he protects his friend ?”’ 

“No!” thundered the voice of Onalaska. 
‘‘ You say the captive is your friend; it is 
enough. It shall never be said that Onalaska 
put to death the friend of the White Rover. 
The bold hunter is free.”’ 

‘*T thank you,” replied the daring youth, 
with a graceful wave of the hand; ‘‘and if the 
great Onalaska should need a friend in the hour 
of adversity, he will know where to find one.”’ 

Pierre Moran’s rifle was then’ restored, and 
his deliverer, taking him by the arm, hurried 
him away from the dangerous vicinage. 

- With the kind reader’s permission, we will 
briefly describe the young man who appeared 
so opportunely for the deliverance of the hunter. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


In person he was about the size of the latter, 
having the same powerful muscular develop- 
ment—that unerring sign of physical strength. 
He was dressed in similar style, also, and car- 
ried a double-barrelled rifle of equal length and 
weight ; but farther than this, there was no re- 
semblance, for the face of Henri Deleroix was a 
model of manly beauty. His forehead was 
broad and high, his eyes dark and piercing, his 
lips finely chiselled, his teeth white and regular, 
his nose faultless, and his cheeks ruddy with 


‘the blood of youth, though darkened from con- 


stant exposure or some other cause. Join to 
all these advantages, a commanding figure and a 
noble disposition, and some faint idea may be 
formed of our hero. 

‘Those generous urea of heart and soul, 
those noble traits of character, ever desirable 
and ever to be coveted, we trust we shall be 
able to develop in the person of Henri Del- 
croix, in the course of our story, as time, space, 
and circumstances may require ; for from these 
flow all human acts, whether good or evil. 

‘« You have rendered me an important ser- 
vice, young man,” said Pierre Moran, as they 
walked swiftly forward. 

‘‘No more than common humanity demands,” 
replied Henri. 

‘‘ Spoken like a true man,”’ said the hunter. 
‘‘May I be permitted to ask if your home is — 
near the new settlement ?” 

‘‘Sometimes it is near, at others afar off,”’ 
answered Delcroix, lightly. ‘‘ At present, my 
home is wherever night overtakes me. I ama 
free denizen of the forest ; a licensed wanderer 
among hills and Hib tSth st 

‘‘ A bold heart, truly. Pardon me if I ask 
your name ?”’ 

“ T am called Henri Deleroix, by the French ; — 
but the red man, not unfrequently, styles me 
the ‘Wurre Rovzr.’ I can tell you but little 
of my history. I was born in the great valley 
of the Mississippi, about the time of the first 
settlement at Biloxi. My early youth was 
passed mostly among the Indians; but I was 
finally domiciled in the house of a good priest, 
who taught me to read and write. I remember 


THE WHITE ROVER. ° 


a French woman, also, who seemed very fond of 


me, and taught we much that was useful. The 
priest is still living. He has recently taken up 
his residence at the new settlement, which they 
call New Orleans, and I am allowed to follow 
my own inclinations. This is about all I am at 
liberty to tell you of my own history.” 

**In return for your frankness,”’ replied the 
other, ‘I will inform you that my name is 
Pierre Moran. Like you, my home is in the 
woods, for I am a hunter. Iam familiar with 
every acre of the country an hundred miles up 
the river. I-know where the deer goes down 
to drink ; where the fox seeks covert; where 
the wolf prowls at night ; and where the panther 
loves best to lie in wait for its prey. I know 
‘something of the Indian tribes, also, and of the 
habits of that strange people. When you de- 
sire the-aid of a strong hand, and a hunter’s 
friendship, give the preference to Pierre Moran. 
The service you have rendered me this night, 
makes me your friend forever.’’ 

“‘T thank you for your manly proffers of 
friendship ; for in these troublous times, true 
friendships are rare,’ replied Deleroix, warmly. 

*‘ And real enemies too often found,’ re- 
joined Pierre. 

‘Yes ; and how much it is to be regretted,”’ 
said Deleroix, sadly. 


13 


‘** And now, while I think of it, permit me to 
svhisper a word, of warning in your ear: 

‘* Beware or LesaceE!”’ 

Henri Deleroix started at the mention of Le- 
sage, as if a serpent had stung him. 

‘You know that man, then?’ he replied, 
turning quite suddenly, and looking steadily at 
Moran. 

‘‘Tdo. Ihave, by some fatality, met him 
several times.” 

“Ts he a friend of yours ?”’ 

‘God forbid !”’ said Pierre Moran, earnestly. 

‘‘Then you are not pleased with him, Mon- 
sieur Moran !” 

‘7 am not ; and it is possible that the time 
is near when I will give you my reasons for dis- 
liking him. Bat now let us decide where we 
shall pass the rest of the night.” 

‘Go with me to the settlement. Father Da- 
vion always has a spare bed for my friends.”’ 

'“T accept the kind offer. I can already see 
the fires of New Orleans.”’ 

In a few moments, Henri Deleroix and the 
swarthy hunter stood in the midst of the minia- 
ture city. They entered a cabin not far from 
the spot where the old Cathedral now stands, 
and in a short time were wrapped in a profound 
slumber, forgetful of the toils and perils of the. 
day. 


’ 


CHAPTER IIL. 


HELEN LEROWE—ADELAIDE—THE DECLARATION. 


Tr was the morning following the events de- 
tailed in our last chapter. It was quite early, for 
the sun still lingered upon the eastern verge. 

At that hour a female figure might have been 
seen walking hurriedly up the street, now known 
as Chartres street. That portion of her face 
which was not concealed by a veil, was sufli- 
cient to assure any one who might have any 
curiosity in relation to the subject that she was 
quite youthful and exquisitely fair. 

She was well dressed, according to the style 
of that period ; but she was by no means in- 
debted to mere externals for that rare beauty of 
outline, that graceful development of person, 
which was hers, and which could not fail to ex- 
cite admiration in the most casual observer.— 
So far as stature was concerned, she compared 
very well with the models of female perfection, 
esteemed by classic minds in all ages. , 

Hers was that exalted and pure style of love- 
liness, pre- eminently calculated to please and 
bewilder all true admirers of beauty in woman. 

As she moved lightly onward, there was 
grace and poetry in every motion ; not that re- 


ceived from art, but that borrowed from nature 
herself. The fair girl turned to the left, and 
entered a cabin, near the present site of the St. 

Charles Theatre. : 

Ah, mademoiselle! you have come to see us 
again in the day of our afflictions,” said a pale 
and interesting looking woman, as our heroine 
crossed the humble threshold. ‘‘There are 
very few young and fair like yourself, who love 
to visit the poor and needy. God will reward 
you, Mademoiselle Lerowe,” added the woman. 

‘‘ How is your husband ?”’ asked Mademoiselle 
Lerowe, kindly, and throwing back her veil. 

‘‘ Louis is much better, thanks to your gentle 
ministration, but it was an ugly wound, Made- 
moiselle Helen,” replied the woman. 

‘¢ And how is Adelaide ?”’ 

‘‘She will answer for herself,’ said a soft 
voice, and a young girl of about seventeen years 
appeared from an adjoining room. 

‘‘ You are looking rather pale this morning. 
You must go and walk in the openair. The air 
of a sick room does not agree with young blood 
like yours, Adelaide,”’ rejoined Helen, study- 
ing the features of her young friend attentively. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


“*T have known young ladies to have pale 
cheeks without inhaling the air of a sick room,”’ 
returned Adelaide, playfully. 

Helen Lerowe blushed, and placed her white 
fingers on Adelaide’s lips. y 

‘* For all your acts of kindness during my 
father’s severe illness, I thank you most sin- 
cerely, Mademoiselle Helen,”’? added Adelaide, 
in a more serious and earnest tone. 

‘* You may leave off the Mademoiselle, Ade- 
laide, and as for thanks, you need not saya 
word aboutthem. Youknow that in future we 
are to be the best of friends,’ rejoined Helen. 

‘“‘ You forget, Helen, that I am but a poor 
girl, occupying a different position in life,’’ said 
- Adelaide, meekly. 

« And you forget, Adelaide, that I am also 
but a poor girl, and nothing but the governor’s 
ward. There isa great difference between a 
ward and a daughter, my good friend,”’ replied 
Helen. 

“But you are an inmate of the governor’s 
house, and as kindly treated as if you were in- 
deed his daughter,’’ said Adelaide. 

‘** Very true; and yet there are times when 
I feel but too painfully that Iam not his daugh- 
tor, but merely a dependant upon his bounty,”’ 
answered Helen, sadly. 

- “T am not certain that you ought to cherish 
such feelings, Mademoiselle Lerowe. -We all 
know that his Excellency, De Bienville, is very 
fond of you.” 

‘** Heaven could not have confided me to the 
care of a better man than De Bienville,”’ re- 
plied Helen, earnestly ; ‘‘ but notwithstanding, 
there are moments when my heart feels the want 
of a mother’s love, and a father’s counsel.”’ 

While Mademoiselle Lerowe was speaking, 
the door was softly opened, and Henri Deleroix 
entered the apartment. His eyes rested upon 
the fair figure of Helen Lerowe. He recoiled a 
step, changed color, and seemed embarrassed. 
His confusion seemed contagious, for Helen 
blushed and was quite as much embarrassed. 

Henri bowed, and said with tolerable grace : 

“It gives me pleasure to meet you here, 
Mademoiselle Lerowe. The object of your 


15 


visit, I need not ask. It is a part of your na- 
ture to perforh acts of benevolence. I dare 
say that Madame Ridelle and Adelaide will 
bear witness to what I have taken the liberty 
to affirm.” 

‘¢ And so will my husband,”’ said Madame 
Ridelle, warmly. 

‘“‘Tsee you are leagued together to confuse 
and overwhelm me with useless compliments,” 
replied Helen, with a smile. 

‘‘ Deserved praise is by no means useless, 
Mademoiselle Helen,” said Henri, respect- 
fully. 

And then he added quickly, in order to 
change the subject, which he perceived was real- 
ly annoying to Helen : 

‘‘ How is Ridelle, this morning? May we 
soon expect to see him out again?” 

‘“‘He is doing well, Monsieur Henri. His 
wounds are nearly healed. In a few days he 
says he shall be able to take the trail again, 
and punish the treacherous Chickasaws,’’ an- 
swered Madame Ridelle. 

Helen rose to depart. 

‘« Stay,” said the kind matron, with a signifi- 
cant smile. ‘* Be seated; we cannot spare you 
yet.” 

‘© Of course not,’ added Adelaide, and with 
gentle force, she compelled her to he seated. 

Madame Ridelle drew Delcroix aside, and 
whispered in his ear : 

‘‘Improve your time, Henri. Don’t be 
faint hearted. We will endeavor to give you 
ample opportunity. Just speak to her, and 
my word for it, she will not be angry.” 

Henri made no reply, but gave her a grate- 
ful look. 

‘* Adelaide, did not your father call?’’ added 
Madame Ridelle, after a moment’s pause. 

Adelaide hastened to the bedside of her 
father, begging Helen to remain until she re- 
turned. Very soon Madame Ridelle followed 
her daughter, who called to her. 

Mademoiselle Lerowe and Henri were left 
alone. An awkward silence ensued. 

‘* Mademoiselle Helen,’’ said Henri, seating 
himself at her side, ‘‘condescend to listen to 


16, 


me a single moment, and if in that moment I 
offend you, it will be the unhappiest of my 
whole life. I have never yet presumed to tell 
you with my lips what I am convinced your own 
penetration discovered long ago in my actions, 
viz., that I passionately loved you. 
than this ;—I worship—I adore you. 


Yes, more 
But, 
beautiful Helen, these terms but. imperfectly 
express my heart’s idolatry.”’ | 

Henri’s voice trembled ; he hesitated, and 
then ventured to take Helen’s hand. 

‘« Have patience with me, dear mademoiselle ; 
hear what I have to say, and I will not soon 
trouble you with the story of my unhappy love 
again. 1 know that you are an angel of good- 
ness, and placed far above me in life. I can- 
not hope that you will ever become more to me 
than you are now; yet I have resolved to un. 
burden my heart, in order that I might have a 
portion of that gentle sympathy which .you are 
wont to bestow upon all the unfortunate.” 

Again Henri's emotions overpowered him. 
Helen’s eyes were full of tears, and she trem- 
bled excessively. 

‘Cease to speak thus, I entreat of you,”’ 
she said, in a voice nearly inaudible. 

‘‘T know it wounds your gentle nature to see 
me consumed with a hopeless passion,’ contin- 
ued Henri, ‘‘ and I will trespass but little far- 
ther upon your time and patience. In extenua- 
tion of my folly, I would entreat you to re- 
member, Helen, that I have known you from my 
boyhood ; that I was the companion of your 
earliest wanderings over the green hills of 
Biloxi; that Father Davion taught us to read 
from the same book ;-that he bade me love you 
as a sister ; that you were surpassingly beauti- 
ful, and a heart less susceptible than mine 
might have loved you. At length you became 
a ward or rather the adopted daughter of De 
Bienville. Thereafter you were gently nurtured, 
and a greater distance was placed between us 
in point of condition ; but the mischief was al- 
ready done. I had learned to adore you, 
"young as you were, and your dear image was 
engraved upon my heart, never to be effaced. — 
I still met you often, and you usually paused 


‘ 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


for amoment to speak kindly to your former 
associate and companion, and thus unconsciously 
nurtured my passion. Helen, is my presump- 
tion to be wondered at? Is it not a natural 
consequence of our former companionship ?”’ 

‘‘Q, Henri, why will you thus misapprehend 
Ido not reproach you—I do not blame 
you,” replied Helen, in a voice tremulous with 
emotion. 

‘‘Then you are not angry, because. I have 
spoken freely ; you do not too severely condemn 
my presumption!’ exclaimed Henri, falling 
upon his knees, and pressing the hand of Helen 
to his lips. 

‘Ah, Henri! how blind you have been,” 
she said, softly. 

A sudden and. almost overpowering light 
flashed in upon the mind of Henri Deleroix. 
His brain seemed to stagger with the weight of 
the truth, which his senses had received. The 
blood rushed tumultuously to his face ; his eyes 
sparkled with unnatural light ;—he was dizzy 
with happiness. | 

He bestowed upon Helen a thousand endear- 
ing epithets; he did not cease to kiss her hand 
until he heard the footsteps of Adelaide. 

He rose from his knees with a face radiant 
with joy. 

‘‘T have been indeed blind,’ he said, in a 
low tone, ‘‘ for you love me.” 

Adelaide saw how matters were progressing, 
and hastily retreated to her father’s room. 

The happy lover drew the tearful and blush- 
ing maiden towards him, and ventured to press. 
his lips lightly to her crimson cheek. 

‘*‘ Helen,” he added, ‘‘now am I indeed 
happy. The days of my boyhood seem. to be 
recalled. Henceforth I will live to make my- 
self worthy of Helen Lerowe. I will win a 
name that shall be worthy of her, or perish in 
the effort. Now Iam but an unknown lad, 
without money, and I might add, without 
parentage ; but I trust it will not always be 
thus, for now I have as great an incentive to ac- 
tion as ever mortal man had.”’ ‘ 

‘‘Nay, Henri, you overvalue me. You for- 
get that I am as portionless as yourself, and 


me. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


that my parentage is involved in an obscurity 
as dark as your own. I have no claims to 
gentle birth, and am but a dependant upon the 
bounty of the excellent governor,” replied 
Helen, egrnestly. 

“You lose sight of many advantages which 
you possess. You are known as the fairest of 
the daughters of Louisiana. There is not a 
man in the colony-but would be proud to lay 
his heart at your feet, were he sure the offering 
would be accepted.. It would be easy for Mad- 
emoiselle Lerowe to marry a fortune,” replied 
Henri. 

‘‘Such an absurd idea never occurred to 
Mademoiselle Lerowe,”’ rejoined Helen, smiling. 

‘* Helen,’ continued Henri, seriously ‘‘ are 
you willing to sacrifice ambition to love, and re- 
main as you are now until Dame Fortune shall 
enable me to claim you as my bride ?”’ 

“It will be no sacrifice, Henri; and as ™ 
ambition, I have little of the kind phn refer to,’ 
said Helen. 

“Your kind words render me unspeakably 
happy. And now, dear girl, allow me to meet 
you here as often as propriety will admit.” 

‘‘T should be rather a poor judge of the last 
named commodity, I fear,’’ answered the maid- 
en, with a smile. - 

“*On the contrary, you are a model of pro- 
priety,’’ said Henri. ‘But there is another 
subject I must speak of before we part. I 
have often seen Captain Lesage enter the gov- 
ernor’s house. My heart told me that he had 
a motive in going there. Was I right ?”’ 

The sweet face of Helen was suffused with 
blushes. 

“You were not wrong in your 4uspicions. 
He has persecuted me for several months.”’ 

‘* And you gave him no encouragement ?”’ 

** Certainly not.” 

“Well, Helen?” 

‘‘He grew impatient, and accused me of 
loving a nameless adventurer.”’ 

‘The villain!” 

“T think, nay, Tam certain that you have 
much’to fear from him, for by some means he 
has discovered your secret, and mine too, per- 


17 


haps. He is a man that will not brook denial, 
and when once resolved upon a thin 
can change his purpose.”’ 

‘You have not mistaken his character. He 
is indeed a dangerous man, and’capable of any 
act of villany. How does he stand with De 
Bienville ?” | 

“On very good terms, I believe.” 

‘*Do you imagine that the governor favors 
his pretensions ?”’ 

‘*On that subject Iam in doubt. I hope 
not for : a. heartily despise the ee of 
the man.’ 

‘* There is still another subject upon which I 
must speak. , There is a prospect of a long and 
bloody war with the Indians. Already have 
the savages commenced their depredations, pro- 


g, nothing 


‘voked, I have reason to believe, by some overt 


act on the part of Captain Lesage. Onalaska 
has gathered together his’ warriors, and sent 
’ | deputations to all the neighboring nations ; to 
the Choctaws, the Natchez, the Mobilians, and 
the Yazoos. The slumbering desire for ven- 
geance has been awakened. The council-fires 
of the red men are burning on every hill, and 
in every valley, and upon every river; unless 
this rising is checked at once, every white man 
will be swept from the great valley of the 
Mississippi. The settlement at Mobile, at 
Dauphine Island, at Pensacola, and here at 
New Orleans, will perish simultaneously ; for, 
by a wonderful concert of action, all these in- 
fant colonies will be crushed in a day.” 

The face of Helen grew pale. 

‘Merciful heaven !’’ she exclaimed. 
the danger indeed so imminent ?”’ 

‘Tt is.. There is no child’s play about it. 
You know that I have been free to go among 
the Indian tribes, and that I have ever been 
called the Indian’s friend. I believe they have 
imbibed the idea that a goodly portion of their 
own red blood is mixed with the white currents 
that flow in my veins,”’ said Henri, with a slight 
change of color. ‘* But let that be as it may, 
I have acquired considerable influence over the 
minds of our red neighbors. No longer ago 
than last night, I dared to dash into their midst, 


6< Is 


18 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


and snatch a victim from the jaws of death, | anticipated,’ said Moran, turning to Henri, ‘‘I 


even after the fires were lighted. And,”’ con- 
tinued Henri, with a flashing eye and a heay- 
ing chest, ‘‘ I escaped unharmed. Not one of 
the horribly painted warriors pointed a feather- 
ed arrow, or raised a tomahawk against me.— 
There is not another man in Louisiana that could 
have done it.”’ 

‘‘T’ll answer for the truth of that assertion 
with my life,”’ said a voice. 

Henri and Helen turned toward the door, 
and their eyes rested upon the figure of Pierre 
Moran. , 

‘‘There is not another man in the French 
colony that could have done it and lived to tell 
his sweetheart of it. Pierre Moran says it,” 
added the hunter. 

«« And he would be a bold man who would 
dare gainsay you,’’ replied Henri. ‘‘ Permit 
me to introduce you to Mademoiselle Lerowe.”’ 

Pierre bowed gallantly, and expressed the 
pleasure he experienced in making the acquain- 
tance of so fair a lady. 

«« As you stayed much longer than you had 


feared something unfortunate had befallen you, 
and came promptly to the rescue; but I per- 
ceive that you can dispense with my services.” 

Henri and Helen exchanged glances, and 
color. 

At that crisis Madame Ridelle and her inter- 
esting daughter appeared, and Pierre Moran 
was greeted as an old acquaintance. 

‘‘T have hunted many a day, and camped 
many a night with Ridelle,” said the hunter. 

‘* And [have fought the savages side by side, 
with him, and hope to again, for there will soon 
be warm work in the colony.’’ 

‘* Do you think so ?”’ asked Madame Ridelle, 
anxiously. 

‘« There can be no doubt of it, madame. | It’s 
a fact that might as well be known first as last. 
The red men are aroused to vengeance, and 
much blood will be shed.”’ 

Madame Ridelle sighed. Monsieur Moran 
looked furtively at Adelaide, and Adelaide 
looked down at the floor. ; 


CHAPTER IV. 


A CONFIDENTIAL INTERVIEW—=FATHER DAVION——THE ARREST. 


Tr was evening. De Bienville and Lesage 
were closeted together. 

*« Are you really in earttest,”’ said De Bien- 
ville, “when you assure me that this young man 
has incited all the Indian tribes against the 
French colonists ?”’ 

‘“‘T never was more so, your excellency,”’ re- 
plied Lesage. 

‘‘But what is the secret of his influence 
among them? Canyou tell me that?’ asked 
De Bienville, incredulously. 

‘© The truth is he is not free from native blood, 
himself. He has associated with the Indians 
from his childhood, and having considerable 
natural shrewdness, has learned how to operate 
upon their impulsive natures. He is known 
also to be the intimate friend of Father Davion, 
and he possesses great influence among the sav- 
ages,” replied Lesage, with apparent sincerity. 

‘Ts it possible that this boy has Indian blood 
enough to make him plan the destruction of all 
the French settlers upon the Mississippi?’ ex- 
claimed De Bienville, nervously. 

“It is too true,” replied Lesage, musingly. 
‘One drop of Indian blood would be enough 
to contaminate the best man in the country.” 

“You do not like our red neighbors, cap- 
tain !”’ rejoined De Bienvyille, looking searck- 
ingly at Lesage. 


“T plead guilty to the charge. I hate the 
whole race ; and not without cause ; for is not 
every Frenchman on the Mississippi in danger ? 
It is not easy to guess what asingle day may 
bring forth. To-day we rest in coniparative 
security, to-morrow we may be tomahawked and 
scalped, and our infant city laid in ashes,”’ 

‘‘ Lesage,’ said De Bienville, abruptly, ‘<I 
have been acquainted with the various tribes on 
the Mississippi River for twenty-one years, and 
[ have not yet acquired that influence over their 
minds which you say this beardless boy has. 
If what you say be true, nature has certainly 
intended hini for a great man.” 

‘* For @ great villain, you meant to say, your 
excellency,’’ retorted Lesage, somewhat tartly. 

‘« T mean as I said,” returned the governor, 
drily. ‘* It requires a bold and daring spirit to 
lay such a plan as you have been talking of. A 
vile coward—a paltry knave, could not do it. 
But the young vagabond must be looked to.”’ 

‘¢ You cannot attend to the matter too soon, 
your excellency’ Already the axe is laid at the 
root of the tree.” 

Hold!” cried De Bienville; with a sinile. 
‘« When the devil. quotes Cele men should 
be on their guard.”” 

“Ah, Be Bien Ville; you are scarcely aware 
of the danger that threatens this devoted eols 


oT 


20 


ony. Already I seem to hear the shrieks of 
helpless women, and_ the wailings of innocent 
babes. Good heavens! that such depravity 
should be found on earth?’ and the tender- 
hearted captain covered his face with his hands, 


‘and paced the floor in deep affliction. 


“© Becalm, Captain Lesage,” said the govern- 
or, somewhat softened by his emotions. ‘‘ Re- 
strain your anxiety; immediate steps shall be 
taken to arrest the threatened calamity.” 

De Bienville paused and seemed absorbed in 
thought. 

‘* And this boy was the friend and baie 
of Helen,” he said, musingly—‘‘ the bright 
and intelligent youth I used so much to admire. 
Strange that the human countenance should be 
such a falsehood, and furpish no key to the 


character of its possessor.”’ 


Then turning suddenly to Lesage : 

‘Do you think Father Davion knows aught 
of Henri’s plans, or understands his disposition ?”’ 

‘‘T donot. The good old man has not the 
remotest idea of the baseness of the serpent he 
has nurtured in his bosom. When the whole 
is made known to him, it will bring his gray 
hairs in sorrow to the grave.” 

‘And some of our heads, it would seem, 
will be brought down to sheol before our hairs 
have a chance to grow gray. Alas, we are an 
unfortunate people. Lesage, I wish there were 
some mistake about this matter. .I do not wish 
to think so hardly of the boy ;’’ and De Bien- 
ville walked the room with agitated steps. 

‘Go and arrest him,” he said, at length, in 
a sorrowful voice. ‘‘Go and arrest him,” 
and he waved his hand for Lesage to depart. 

‘‘T never gave an order with so much reluc- 
tance,’’ he said to himself, when the captain 
had gone. ‘‘I really liked the lad; but what 
a venomous viper he is, to be sure. 
young, too. Mon Diew! I am losing all faith 
in human nature.” 

We will now, gentle readers bend our foot- 
steps to the humble cabin of Father Davion— 
one whose name is already recorded upon the 
page of history, as the friend and instructor of 
the poor and untutored savage. 


And so |. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


The venerable old man was alone. He was 
engaged in the most ennobling of all human em- 
ployments—prayer. But he petitioned not for 
himself. 

‘¢ Preserve us from the horrors of war,’’ he 
cried, elevating his hands and bowing his head 
low upon his breast. ‘‘Save my people from 
blood-guiltiness. Disarm the poor red man of 
his vengeance ; protect this fecble colony, lest 
it perish from the face of the earth.” 

Father Davion arose from his knees. 
door opened and Henri Delcroix entered. 

‘* Pax vobiscum”’ (peace be with you), said 
the man of God. 

‘* Under your roof,” replied Henri, feelingly, 
‘*T have found the blessing which you have 
now invoked.”’ 

‘« Deo gratias (thanks be to God). It makes 
my heart glad to hear you say so, my son. But 
what are these rumors that are afloat in New 
Orleans? Sit down and tell me. Is. there 
really any danger of a simultaneous rising of 
the Indians ?”’ 

‘‘ There is, good father. The peril is immi- 
nent, and if some decisive measures are not im- 
mediately taken by the governor to soften down 
the spirit of vengeance, or to meet it face to 
face, the French settlements will be. swept 
away with the besom of destruction.” 

The holy father crossed himself devoutly. 

‘* Deus in adjutoriummeum intende!. You 
must hasten to. the governor at once, and give 
him due warning.”’ 

‘* Alas, his earsare not open to counsel like 
mine,’’ answered Henri, sadly. ‘‘ Other tongues 
are busy with him, and my bare assertion would 
avail but little.’ 

‘* Do you mean to say, my son, that the goy- 
ernor’s mind is already against you ?”’ 

‘*T have good and sufficient reasons for be- 
lieving so; for he has had dangerous counsel- 
lors. Lesage, forgetful of all but, self, is con- 
stantly pouring his subtle poisons into: the 
governor’s mind, and soon there will be no 
room there for aught save distrust and anxiety. 
One Pierre Moran, a hunter, whose name you 
have doubtless heard, has been with De. Bien- 


The 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


ville to-day, and he heard enough to convince 
him that I should have little or no influence 
with him, although I am known to have an 
accurate knowledge of the Indians and Indian 
character.’ 

“Ah, Henri! De Bienville prides himself 
on his own knowledge of Indian character,” 
said Father Davion. 

“‘ And not without reason. He is wise and 
Sagacious in that respect, and is much esteemed 
by the red man; but he is not admitted into 
their confidence, as I have been.”’ 

‘“‘ Very true, my son; you are indeed ina 
fearful dilemma. You cannot fight against your 
people, and how can you betray the trust of the 
poor Indian—lift your hand against him who 
has fed and warmed you!” 
Davion, with much emotion. 

‘* Your words fill me with apprehension, holy 
father. Iam indeed painfully embarrassed.— 
My thoughts distract me! But, Mon Dieu! I 
cannot stand still and see the savage curs shed 
the blood of these helpless colonists! No, no! 
I will fly to the forest ; I will present myself 
before the red men. I will tell them I shake 
off their friendship forever; that henceforth 
there is no bond of sympathy between us; 
that [ will meet them in the field, and in the 
forest, as deadly enemies; that I cannot turn 
renegade to my own blood. Give me my rifle, 
my powder-horn, my ball-pouch, my hunting- 
knife, and let me away!’ - 

' **No, stay, my dear boy. Let us think 
calmly ; let us plan deliberately ; let us look the 
danger calmly in the face.” 

*“* And while we are doing that, the war-cry 
may perchance be heard all along the banks of 
the Mississippi.” 

‘“« But reflect, my son, you must not throw 
away your life when your aid isso much needed 
by these defenceless people. Women and chil- 
dren claim the protection of every hand that ean 
lift a musket or wield a sword.”’ 

* « And there is one, good Father Davion, that 
' Henri Deleroix would die to save,’’? said the 
young man, in a low, impressive voice. 

“« What !” exclaimed Father Dayvion. 


‘Tg 
2 A 


exclaimed Father 


21 


your heart then enthralled by the blandishments 
of woman ?”’ 

‘“‘Tt is; and her name is Helen Lerowe, the 
fairest of the fair, and for her sake I would face 
a thousand deaths, and my heart should not pul- 
sate with a single fear for myself.” 

‘*« Now may Heaven be merciful, Henri, for 
there is indeed danger before you !”” 

‘*Do you reproach me, father, for loving 
that noble girl—one who you yourself taught 
me to love as a sister, when you taught us to 
read from the same book ?”’ 

‘No, no! I do not reproach you. Were it 
not for the ruin which you will draw down upon 
your own youn#head, I would rather you should 
fix your love upon Helen Lerowe, than any oth- 
er woman in the world. But do you not see 
that your relations to her are changed? She is 
no longer a romping girl, but an inmate of the 
governor’s family. The guileless girl has be- 
come the accomplished lady. She has no dearth 
of lovers. She can choose from the titled and 
the wealthy ; and be assured De Bienville will 
exercise a parent’s authority over her actions ; 
at least, so far as it seems to him for her good.” 

** All you have said is true; but do not 
imagine that it has not occurred to me be- 
fore. Ihave thought of it for many months; 
but -to-day I have done more than simply 
to think—I have acted. Helen loves me, and 
our mutual vows are registered in heaven.” 

‘‘Rash boy! youare rushing headlong to 
your ruin. You have rich and powerful rivals, 
who will crush you at ablow. How can a 
friendless, nameless, homeless youth enter the 
arena and do battle with such odds!’ » cried 
Father Davion, in tones of real anguish. 

“Is it generous, holy father, to refer to my 
obscure birth? Has not the rugged iron already 
entered my soul? Need I another thrust to 
keep me humble? Would you strike the sub- 
missive dog that already crouches at your feet ?”’ 
. “Hold, my dear Henri! you are too hard 
upon your old friend. If I probe your wound, 
it is that I may heal it soundly and well.— 
Far be it from me to reproach you because your 
parentage is obscure. The same inscrutable 


22 


obscurity also hangs over the parentage of 
Helen ; and it were folly to affirm that she is 
less lovely or noble for that.’’ «i 

‘‘T hear footsteps without,’’ said Henri, start- 
ing to.his feet. ‘‘It sounds like the tread of 
armed men. What can it mean ?”’ 

‘‘You may well ask!’’ exclaimed Father 
Davion ; ‘‘for I see the bristling of bayonets 
through the windows! Alas! my heart tells 
me but too plainly what it portends.”’ 

There “was a loud rap like a blow from the 
hilt of .a sword. 

‘* Conceal yourself, my dear boy,’’ whispered 
the holy father. | 

‘« Never,” said Henri, firmly ‘‘ I will meet 
the danger boldly, whatever it may be. Henri 
Delecroix will never fly while he has the proud 
consciousness that he has done nothing worthy 
of punishment.”’ 

Father Davion opened the door, and the form 

of Lesage darkened the threshold. 

‘* Henri Deleroix, I arrest you,’’ he said, in 
an arrogant tone. 

‘* By whose authority ?”’ asked Henri. 

. “By the authority of his excellency, the 
governor of Louisiana,’’ replied Lesage. 

“* For what crime ?”’ 

«‘T was ordered to arrest you, and not to an- 
swer questions, Monsieur Henri. Men, close 
up round the door, and see that he does not 
escape through the windows.”’ 

‘* Did you bring the whole of the governor’s 
army ?”’ asked Henri, sarcastically. 

Lesage bit his lips and made no reply. 

‘* Captain Lesage, what does all this portend ? 
Answer me?’ said Father Davion, in a tone of 
command. 

‘You can ask his excelleney,’’ returned Le- 
sage, ‘‘if you have any interest in this unfor- 
tunate young man. I can only assure that he 
will be dealt fairly with. It is my duty to con- 
duct him to prison. Sergeant Dumont, march ina 
fileof men. Corporal Willet, brmg the irons.” 

The captain stepped aside, and the sergeant 
with a file of men, with shouldered arms, en- 
tered and surrounded Henri. The corporal fol- 
lowed. with handcuffs. 


? 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘‘ Hold out your hands for the ornaments, 
monsieur,”’ said the corporal. 

With a_ simile of derision Henri put forth his 
hands, and the irons were placed upon them. 

He was then pushed into the open air in 
order that the curious captain might arrange his 
men in marching order. 

‘Close up, men. Sergeant Dumont, prick 
that man with your sword that laughed in the 
ranks! Attention the whole! eyes front! to 
the right about face! mark time! march !”’ and 
the chivalry of Louisiana moved away toward 
the prison. ; 

‘We ought to have had musie, Sergeant Dv- 
mont, so that we could have taken him along to 
the tune of the ‘‘Rogue’s March,’”’? remarked 
the captain, facetiously. 

The prison was a small stone building near 
the governor’s residence, and thither Henri was 
escorted. He soon had the sorrowful privilege 
of hearing the locks of a prison turn upon him 
for the first time in his life. 

A just appreciation of his position, which his 
better judgment enabled him to make, nearly 
overwhelmed him with grief and anxiety. 

Not that he feared any punishment’ for sup- 
posed erimes, but the idea of dishonor and last- 
ing ignominy quite unnerved him for the mo- 
ment ; for it was possible thateven Helen might 
be taught to credit the tales which would be 
circulated in regard to him. 

Leaving him to gloomy thoughts, we will 
return again to the house of the governor ; for 
we scarcely dare dignify itswith the title of 
mansion. | 

Immediately after the prison doors had been 
locked upon Henri, Captain Lesage hastened to 
the presence of De Bienville, who had not yet 
retired, but was pacing his room with a mind 
distracted by the most.intense anxiety. 

‘‘ Well, captain, what news ?”’ he asked earn- 
estly, when Lesage appeared. 

‘‘ May it please your excellency, our worst 
fears are confirmed,’’ he said, with a low béw, 
and a lugubrious voiee. ‘‘ Upon searehing the” 
young man, I found upon his person sundry 
pieces of birch bark, which seem to be covered 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


with diagrams, one of which I will lay before 
you and attempt to explain.” 

Lesage proceeded to unroll a piece of birch 
oark about the size of a letter sheet. 

‘This serpentine mark thfough the centre of 
the bark, represents, doubtless, the Mississippi 
winding its way along the great valley, and 
these two smaller ones the Tombigbee and Per- 
dido. These round characters indicate the dif- 
ferent French settlements. This is Natchitoches ; 
this is New Orleans; this is Dauphine Island, 
and this is Pensacola.”’ 

“Sacre Dieu!’ exclaimed the governor, 
lifting his hands in astonishment. 

‘‘ Observe, your excellency, that these large 
marks represent the Natchez; this the Choc- 
taws ; this the Chickasaws; this the Mobilians, 
and this the Yazoos.”’ 

‘‘ The saints defend us !’’ ejaculated the gov- 
ernor. | 

‘* These arrows, your excellency,”’ continued 
Lesage, with consummate art, ‘indicate the 
number of villages in each nation ; while these 
belts of wampum represent the number of chiefs. 
Near each village you perceive a hatchet and a 
scalping-knife ; showing probably that a state of 
warfare exists, and is to be carried forward with 
vigor. 

«Are you morally certain that this is the 
work of that unhappy young man?” said De 
Bienville, with a lowering brow. 

‘‘ What farther assurance does your excel- 
lency require?” asked Lesage, with a troubled 
expression. 

“ Albthat I can possibly have. It never 
shall be said that De Bienville, during his ad- 
ministration, acted hastily or without. due evi- 
dence that he was in the path of duty. What are 
you trying to decipher at the bottom of the 
chart 2” 

‘‘ See for yourself,’’ replied aha 
_ The governor took the birchen chart and read 
in legible characters, the name of Henri Del- 
croix, and just beneath it the name of Onalaska 
(sometimes styled Red Shoe), the famous In- 
dian warrior and diplomatist. 

De Bienyille’s hand shook while he held in 
it the fatal sign of Henri’s guilt. 


23 


‘The whole of the foul plot has not yet. been 
developed,’’ added Lesage, in a tone of well 
dissembled grief. ‘‘ This hard-hearted, incon- 
siderate, remorseless youth has also tampered 
with the Banbara negroes, and they are ripe for 
revolt.” 

The governor, upon hearing this astonishing 
intelligence, was for a moment speechless with 
surprise. . 

‘‘T have heard,”’ he said, at length, endeay- 
oring to speak with calmness, ‘‘ vague rumors of 
an insurrection among the Banbaras, but I have 
hitherto regarded them but lightly, knowing 
that the negroes are, as a general thing, adecile 
and peaceably disposed race of men, suffering 
wrong often,- but seldom resisting oppression. 

‘* But now the aspect of things is indeed 
serious, for there are as many negroes’ as whites 
in Louisiana at the present moment. Before we 
proceed farther, tell me how you gained this 
most astonishing piece of news ?”’ . 

‘‘From my own faithful knave, your excel- 
lency.”’ 

‘‘ Call him in, Lesage.”’ 

In a short time the captain’s colored servant 
made his appearance. 

_ “ Curlie, cover up your teeth with those thick 
lips, and answer any questions his. excellency 
may ask, and see tat you keep nothing back,” 
said the captain. 

‘‘ Yes, massa,”’ replied Curlie, displaying a 
large quantity of ivory. 

‘* Curlie,’’ said the governor, sternly, ‘‘ can 
you tell the truth ?” 

‘*T used to could, massa,’’ replied Curlie. 

‘* Do you know Henri Deleroix ?”’ 

‘* As I know my farder, massa gubernor.”’ 

‘« Has he ever tampered with you ?”’ 

‘He tried to, but he couldn’t ’kase Ise so 
wirtuous.”’ 

The governor could not repress a smile. 

‘« Did he ever ask you to join the Indians in | 
a war of extermination against the French ?” 

‘‘Them’s the werry words he said to me, 
Governor Bienville. He told me we could soon 
make the French run away ; that is, 'what few of 
’em wasn’t scalped, and then we could make a. 


9 


9 


24 


nice—what do you call .’em—republic of our 
own, and some of de Banbaras would be guber- 
nors in course of time. 
nature to commit such an act of moral tur- 
pentine !”’ | 

‘‘Turpitude, you mean,” said Lesage. 

*« Do you know whether he ever talked in a 
similar manner to other colored palate 2?” con- 
tinued the governor. 

‘‘ He did. There’s quite a ’telligent darkey 
that I’m jest been conwersing eich: that he 
talked toin the same disrespectable way.”’ 

‘*VYou may go, Curlie, and if yousee that in- 
telligent colored gentleman, request him to 
come in,’’ added the governor, with great gravity. 

The negro referred to made his appearance 
almost immediately, and testified much in 
the same manner that his predecessor had done. 

‘‘ Captain Lesage,”’ said De Bienville, when 
they were alone, ‘‘ I am satisfied that this is a 

‘most serious affair, and that all the French set- 
tlements are in danger of complete destruction. 
Your important services shall not be forgotten. 
You may regard your promotion as something 
fixed upon and certain. Any favors I can 
reasonably grant, you may ask without fear of 
rebuke. The events of the past few days have 
secured for you a warm friend in the person of 
the governor of Louisiana—an office which the 
united voices of the colonists* affirm he has 
never yet disgraced.” 

‘Governor De Bienville, I thank you most 
sincerely for your good opinion. Permit me 
to suggest one thing more before I leave you.”’ 

“‘ Speak freely, captain.’ 

‘‘ You are aware that the worthy Father Da- 
vion is exceeding fond of this misguided youth, 
and will by no means be disposed to admit his 
guilt. He will undoubtedly seek an interview 
with your excellency as soon as the morning 
dawns. Now in order to spare yourself the 

. pain of beholding his grief, would it not be right 
and proper and excusable, to plead some prior 
engagement, or something of that kind? Put 
him off by some means, in order to spare him 
the anguish of a direct refusal of his wishes, 
which would well nigh break his heart. <A 


But it wan’temy 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


course like this, it seems to me, would be a 
mercy to him and to yourself also. 

‘<I will take your well meant advice into con- 
sideration. Send Dumont to me to-morrow.” 

‘“« Yes, your excellency.”’ 

‘“« And, stay ; do not forget to find two or 
three faithful messengers, that I may send to 
the Fort of St. Claude, on the Yazoo River, 
and to the Fort of St. Dennis, at Natchitoches.”’ 

Lesage retired, and the governor was again 
alone, aftlicted about as much with real difficul- 
ties as Sancho Panza was with imaginary ones, 
at the famous island of Barritaria. 

As for Lesage, we will suppose that his 
dreams were troubled, and that his sleep was 
not the sleep of innocence. With consummate 
skill he had woven the meshes of villany about 
his youthful rival, and there appeared but little 
hope that he could extricate himself from the 
difficulties in which he was involved. 

There was a dangerous appearance of reality 
in the developments which he had pretended to 
make to the governor. The Indians were truly 
forgetting their muttial animosities, and uniting 
their strength to crush the French. 

This movement had been suspected by De 
Bienville far a long time, and he now supposed 
that he had significant proof that Henri Del- 
croix was the leader and prime mover of the 
fatal alliance. 

There had also been much discontent among 
the Banbara negroes, and Henri was now as. 
deeply implicated in the embryo insurrection as 
in the Indian league ; and it was fearfully ap- 
parent that if the whole affair was not ‘crushed 
in its infancy, nothing could save the French 
from destruction. 

It was known that our aha had been much 
with the Indians, and had considerable influence 
over them ; and this fact, added to the many 
which Lesage had produced, afforeded, in the 
estimation of the governor, but too evident 
proof of his guilt, and he regarded him as 
furnishing an instance of the blackest ingrat- 
itude and depravity on record. He resolved 
that his punishment should be speedy and sum- 


mary. 


CHAPTER Y. 


LA ‘GLORIEUSE. 


Upon the night of Henri’s arrest, a birchen 
canoe containing two persons was floating noise- 
lessly down the Mississippi, near its western 
bank. Both the voyagers were females., The 
one who occupied the stern of the +fsail vessel 
was a Natchez woman of about twenty years of 
age, uncommonly handsome, and nearly related 
to the Great Sun. She was, in fact, a princess: 
Her name was La Glorieuse—The Proud. 

As the soft moonlight fell upon the face of 
La Glorieuse, it revealed features which would 
not have proved uninteresting even to the most 
common-place observer. The light of a lofty 
spirit beamed from her eyes. Firmness and 

entleness seemed to have met in the expression 
of the mouth, and the general formation of the 
face. 

Her hair was very long and glossy, and hung 
— loosely, but yet gracefully over her shoulders, 
giving her rather a coquettishy appearance. 

She was dressed evidently with great care ac- 
cording to the Indian taste; and yet on the 
whole having an air of easy negligence quite 
agreeable to the beholder. 


La Glorieuse held a light and fancifully carv- 
ed paddle, which she occasionally dipped into 
the wave with a quick and dexterous movement. 
The birchen vessel, obedient to the impulse, 
glided on with a steady and untiring motion. 

The female who sat in the bow of the canoe, 
was obviously descended from a different race. 
She was a Frenchwoman of about thirty years 
of age, as nearly as one could judge from her ap-_ 
pearance. Her name was Leona Mablois; but 
she usually passed as Madame Mablois among 
the French, while the Indians had bestowed up- 
on her the more romantic appellation of Chata- 
kawa, which means Soft-Voice, or the woman 
that sings ; which was given her on account of 
the peculiar sweetness of her voice. 

Though the blushing beauty of youth had 
faded from the face of Madame Mablois, it had 
not left it without attractions. A certain de- 
gree of calm repose had fixed itself upon her 
features ; yet they were impressed and some- 
what saddened by visible lines of care and con- 
stant thought. Her features and manners were 
still pleasing, and caleulated to inspire confi- 


26 -. ° 


dence and friendship. Though her face was 
somewhat darkened by exposure to the open air, 
it had lost little of its true delicacy, and still re- 
tained vestiges of its pristine loveliness. Her 
. figure was good, and possessed that embonpoint 
so highly esteemed by connoisseurs in beauty 
as developed in the gentler sex. Her dress was 
in keeping with her habits, being. a graceful 
blending of the French and Indian styles. 

‘Our voyage is nearly accomplished,”’ 
Madame Mablois. 
New Orleans.”’ 

‘What will my white sister do when she gets 
there ?”’ asked La Glorieuse, looking earnestly 
at Leona. 

‘“‘T shall seek an interview with father Da- 
vion,”” replied the French woman. 

‘“« And will my gentle sister tell him all?” 
continued La Glorieuse. 

Madame Mablois covered her face with her 
hands and sighed. 

-“*My red sister is curious,” 
length with a forced smile. 

‘Tt is because her heart has been touched by 
the sorrows of the Soft-Voice,’’ rejoined La 
Glorieuse. 

‘I will keep nothing from you,”’ replied Le- 
ona, after a short interval of silence. ‘‘I shall 
be governed by circumstances in regard to what 
I may reveal to Father Davion. Ifthe proper 
time seems to have arrived, I shall conceal noth- 
ing. I have the papers with me, and if any- 
thing should befall me, promise me, my faithful 
friend, that. you will secure and keep them as a 
sacred deposit, carrying out my plans so far as 
you know them. 
intimately concern the happiness‘of two persons ; 
yes, [ might with propriety say three or four. 
I feel that I must see Henri. I have much to 
say to him. If circumstances have assumed a 
certain aspect, I shall consider myself so far re- 
leased from my promise as to make disclosures 
of the greatest importance ; but if on the con- 
trary, things have taken a different course, my 
promise will still be valid, and must be adhered 
to, however much I may feel disposed to mur- 
mur at the decrees of fate.”’ 


she said, at 


said, 
‘“‘T can see the smoke of 


These papers, as you know, | 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘‘ The Frenchwoman may trust to the friend- 
ship of La Glorieuse,”’ said the princess. «‘ She 
will never desert her friend while the Master of 
Life gives her strength and breath.” 

‘‘Thank you; you are well worthy of the 
royal blood which raises you above the common 
rank,’’ replied Mablois. 

' “Ah,” said La Glorieuse, with a smile, 
‘royal blood is little esteemed by the French 
people when it circulates in the veins of the In- 
dian.”’ 

‘* Well, let it pass; you are just as much a 
princess as though your blood was white as my 
own. Many a princess has ascended a throne 
of regal magnificence, and governed a people 
professedly Christian, with a heart far less no- 
ble than yours,” added Madame Mablois. 

The face of La Glorieuse lighted up with 
pleasure. 

“The Soft-Voice flatters her simple red 


friend,’’ she said, with a blush. ‘‘ But here 
we are among your people.” 
As the Indian maiden spoke, the canoe 


touched the Levee at New Orleans—that im- 
portant thing known at the present day as the 
Levee had not then attained a height and ex- 
tent worthy of the name, though the earth had 
been raised to prevent the river from inunda- 
ting its banks, and sweeping away all their ef- 
forts at making an inhabitable place, but we 
shall occasionally take the liberty to call that 
then imperfect embankment by the name ‘Py 
which it is now known. 

Mablois stepped from the tiny vessel; La 
Glorieuse followed her, and together they athe 
it to a place of security; this effected, they 
walked silently towards the residence of Father 
Davion. Passing what is now called the Pub- 
lic Square, they reached the corner of Conde: 
and Ursuline streets, where the dwelling of Da- 
vion was in sight. 

Both parties paused, for it was evident that 
something unusual was going forward. They 
saw no less than a score of armed men surround 
the place silently, and then remain motionless, 
waiting farther orders. | 

“A French officer knocks at the door with 





THE WHITE ROVER. 


his sword,’’ said La Glorieuse. ‘‘ He enters; 
and another officer with several soldiers follows 
him. Let us go a little nearer. There goes 
another man with chains for the wrists.” 

“* Handcuffs, those are,”’ said Mablois, in an 
agitated voice. 

*« Do you hear that voice ?’’ added La Glori- 
euse. 

‘*T hear a voice, certainly,’”’ replied Mablois: 

‘« And does not my pale sister recognize it ?”’ 
she asked, earnestly. 

“Tt is Lesage!’ almost shrieked Mablois 

‘“« Some great evil menaces Henri. Let me 
fly to his assistance !”’ | 

‘Hush !”’ said La Glorieuse, throwing her 
arms about Mablois, and forcibly detaining her. 
“You can do nothing. Woman cannot save 
her friends by the strength of her hands, but by 
cunning plans. Let us watch these movements, 
white sister, and we shall know what to do.” 

‘‘Right, my friend, right. The feeble 
strength of woman cannot avail against armed 
men. What do you see, now ?” 

**T see a tall young man led forth from the 
cabin, and he has those chains I spoke of upon 
his hands. It is Henri. The white warriors 
take their places in order; and the war chief 
with the long knife commands them to march. 
They move away. We will follow them.” 

‘They are going towards the peneny? added 
Mablois. 

Leona and La Glirenso quickened their 
pace and kept near the parties until they reach- 
ed the prison. They saw Henri enter, and the 
bolts drawn. upon him, and the soldiers return 
to the barracks, leaving a sentinel posted near 
the door for greater security. 

Lesage went to the governor’s mansion, and 
his steps were still silently followed by Madame 
Mablois and her friend. 

“¢ Now is the time,”’ said La Glorieuse, ‘‘to 
find out what the danger is that threatens Hen- 
ri;” and taking the arm of her less composed 
companion, she drew her to the rear of the gov- 
ernor’s house. 

‘‘ You see a light there, Soft-Voice ?’’ 

fEido: >” 


27 


‘‘The governor is in thatroom, and the wily 
serpent is with him. Here is a tree near the 
high fence, and another near the window. First 
we will climb into this, and let ourselves down 
into the yard by the branches; then we will 
climb softly into that, and listen to the words 
of the great father and chef menteur (lying 
chief).”’ 

This proposal was immediately put into exe- 
cution—for the indulgent reader will bear in 
mind that the females of that day could accom- 
plish any feat requiring dexterity and strength, 
with about the same facility as the other sex. 

The tree was low and its ascent easy. 
Glorieuse, more practised in the arts of forest 
life, and more agile than her companion, was 
the first to let herself down into the yard (which 
would doubtless be called a court at the present 
time). 

She assisted Mablois to alight safely upon the 
ground. Their next care was to attain a suita- 
ble position among the branches of the, willow 
growing by the window. This they succeeded 
in doing with much more silence and despatch 
than might have been anticipated. The tree 
proved most favorable to their purpose, for with 
their ears placed close to the window, they were 
enabled to hear the whole of the conversation 
between De Bienville and Lesage, as we have 
given it in another place. 

Having made themselves acquainted with the 
whole plan of ‘the captain’s villany, they de- 
scended from the place of their concealment, 
and after considerable exertion scaled sh high 
fence and left the vicinity. 

‘Do you not see, sister, that cunning is bet- 
ter than strength ?”’ asked La Glorieuse. 

. Perhaps what we have done would not be 
called pardonable by many people,” replied 
Mablois. 

‘<Tt is a mean act to listen to the talk of oth- 
ers merely to gratify a curiosity ; but to expose 
alying chief, and save a brave friend, it is 
right,’’ answered the princess. 

“Yes, I feel that it must be so. In this 
case, the end to be obtained must justify the 
means we haye been forced to employ to bring 


La 


28 


about its consummation. Now tell me frankly, 
La Glorieuse, do you think we can do anything 
to save Henri from death ? for, unless the truth 
can be proved beyond a doubt, I am well as- 
sured that De Bienville will not spare him; al- 
though it is evident that he feels a strong inter- 
est in the ‘ unhappy youth,’ as he is pleased to 
call him.”’ 

Mablois spoke in a voice which bore witness 
to the intense anxiety which she felt for Henri. 

‘*Chef menteur (he was already known 
among the Natchez as the lying chief) is a bad 
man. His plans are deep and deadly ; for you 
know it is true that there has been a great war- 
council among the war-chiefs of the different na- 
tions, and it has been resolved to kill all the 
French. It is true, also, that nfiny of the ne- 
groes are willing to fight against their masters, 
and some of them have already run away and 
found homes among us. 

‘‘ Now all this is against the brave young 
pale face. The great father is already of the 
opinion that all this trouble has originated with 
him ; for you see that chef menteur has proved 
it by the speaking bark, and the two negroes, 
besides many other things which he has made 
use of to blind the eyes of the great father, so 
that he cannot see clearly.”’ 

‘* Yes, I understand, La Glorieuse.”’ 

‘* When the great chief of the French resolves 
to do a thing, and thinks it is right, he loses no 
time by unnecessary delay. Ifa man is to die, 
he does not put it off; he says in a terrible 
voice, ‘ Lead him out and put him to death.’ 

Nobody has courage to say, ‘ you had better 
wait a little ;? for the great chief would be very 
angry, and lightning would flash from his eyes.”’ 

“T know it! I know it!” exclaimed Ma- 
blois. ‘‘ He acts with terrible decision when he 
believes justice requires the punishment of an 
offender.” 

‘You see, then, that if we were to go to him 
and say, ‘ Great father, chef menteur has lied 
to you,’ he would frown upon us, and say, ‘I 
know my duty. I donotask counsel of women. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


Henri dies on the morrow, for he has planned 
the destruction of innocent babes, helpless wo- 
men, and gray headed old men.’ ”’ 

‘* What then shall we do?’ cried Mablois, 
greatly distressed. ‘‘ Cannot Father Davion 
save him ?”’ 

‘* Father Davion will not be admitted to the 
council chamber of the governor, for chef men- 
teur has barred the doors against him.” 

‘Well, Glorieuse ?” 

‘“« We must get the young pale sii out of 
the stone house.”’ 

‘* Assist him to escape, you mean ?”’ 

eae 

‘But that would confirm his guilt in the es- 
timation of the governor, for it is the guilty who 
seek safety in flight.” 

‘* But it will save his life; forina few weeks 
the dust will get out of the governor’s eyes, and 
he will see clearly ; but now he is blind, and 
before he recovers his sight the young French- 
man will be put to death, and then what can 
make him live again ?”’ 

‘‘ Upon reflection, my better judgment tells 
me that you are right. Do you not think that 
Helen Lerowe might aid us in effecting his es- 
cape from prison ?”’ 

La Glorieuse shook her head thoughtfully. 

‘«The white maiden can do but little at pres- 
ent, because she will be closely watched by chef 
menteur,”” said the princess. ‘‘ Pierre Moran 
would do better.’’ 

‘‘ What can he do, La Glorieuse?”’ 

‘*Climb up to the prison windows and re- 
move the iron bars, so that the young man may 
escape.” 

‘‘ Let us seek him at once!” cried Mablois. 
‘‘We shall be likely to hear of him at Monsieur 
Ridelle’s, for it is said he is smitten with the 
fair face of Adelaide.”’ 

Arrived at Ridelle’s, their astonishment can 
hardly be imagined’ when they were informed 
that a warrant had been issued for Pierre Mo- 
ran’s arrest ; and that to avoid impreqnnient he 
had fled to the woods. 


~ CHAPTER VI. 


RED SHOE-—-THE PANTHER. 


A ratnt glow in the east heralded the coming 
day. Onalaska, chief of the Chickasaws, stood 
silently by the bay of St. Louis. Revolving in 
his mind,his own mighty plans, he had wander- 
ed away from his warriors through the pathless 
forest, nor stayed his footsteps until he reached 
the margin of Lake Borgne, at the fair bay bear- 
ing the name of the great king. 

With folded arm and abstracted air, he gazed 
steadfastly upon the beautiful sheet of water now 
dimly lighted by the first crimson streak of day- 
light. A shade of care and anxiety rested up- 
on the chieftain’s brow. Savage as he was, he 
had doubtless found the task of governing and 

shaping the actions of a numerous people not an 
easy one. 

*«* How calmly thé waters are sleeping,” he 
said, musingly. ‘‘ The red men rested as qui- 


etly among their native hills, before the pale-fa- |. 


ces came among them. But now there is no 
rest for the sons of the forest, once the undis- 
turbed owners of this great country. Where 
now are the Indian’s lakes and rivers, and hunt- 
ing grounds ?”’ 


Onalaska paused. Painful thoughts agitated 
his bosom. 

‘* The white man and the red cannot occupy 
the same country,’ headded. ‘‘ These French 
dogs must be swept away, or the Indians will 
perish. I feel that it must be so; something 
unseen and solemn seems to whisper it in my 
ear.” 

Again the chieftain was silent. When he re- 
sumed, his voice was louder and sterner, and 
his brow was contracted into a forbidding frown. 

‘Tf my brethren will be governed by me, if 
they will keep the vows made in sight of the 
Great Spirit, and written upon the clouds with 
his finger, we shall live to see the trees growing 
upon the ruins of the French settlement, and 
the deer feeding upon the grass where cotton is 
flourishing.”’ 

A slight rustling among the dry leaves caused 
the warrior to lay his hand upon his knife. A 
moment he stood in the fixed attitude of atten- 
tion, with his keen eyes directed towards the 
surrounding trees. No object was visible, and 


the sound did not immediately recur. 


30 


«Tt was the footstep of the timid hare or the 
sportive quarrel,” said Onalaska to’ himself, 
and relapsed again into a state of reverie. 

“““The Africans despise their masters,’ he 
added. ‘The red man has wisely taught them 
to hate servitude, and they are impatient for the 
hour of emancipation. Already are they form- 
ing plans for the establishment of a republic! 
Fools! will the Indians destroy the French for 
the sake of giving the country to spiritless cow- 
ards, who seem fitted by nature for no other 
place than that they now occupy? The blood 
of the red man and the black was never intend- 
ed to mingle any more than that of the red and 
the white. Were the Banvaras to recover their 
freedom, they could not keep it; they were 
born slaves, and their hearts are not big enough 
to appreciate the blessings of freedom, and to 
govern themselves. But we will not harm them 
when their masters are no more. We will give 
them a piece of ground, and they shall dwell by 
themselves, when they will, no doubt, in their 
craven-heartedness, soon sigh for the servitude 
they have left. It were good that the black 
men return to their own country, since they are 
not worthy of freedom ; for they cannot hunt, 
fish, and make war like the red men, and are 
not full of cunning mventions like the whites.”’ 

Again there was a rustling sound among the 
leaves, and a slight crackling among the dry 
sticks upon the ground. 

Onalaska was completely aroused. He drew 
his tomahawk hastily from his belt, and as he 
did so he saw a human figure emerge from the 
covert of the trees, and stand beside the lake at 
the water’s edge, a few yards distant. 

‘“‘Red-Shoe !”’ said a gentle voice. 

‘Ts it thou, La Glorieuse ?”’ exclaimed Ona- 
laska, with a start of surprise. 

‘Tt is the daughter of the Natchez,’ replied 
the princess, calmly. 

‘And why is the proud descendant of the 
‘Suns’ here at this hour, and alone?’ asked 
the chieftain, anxiously. 

‘* Listen, great warrior, and I will tell you 
why you see me here, near the encampment of 
the Chickasaw braves.’é 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


The stately chieftain bowed, and a smile of 
pleasure lighted momentarily his swarthy fea- 
tures. 

‘« My ears are open, daughter of the ‘ Suns. ’”’ 

‘“The young Frenchman who is known 
among us as the ‘ White Rover,’ is in danger,” 
said the princess. 

‘*And is that what brings you hither, fair 
princess ?”’ asked Red-Shoe, with a smile of pe- 
culiar meaning, which did not please La Glori- 
euse. 

‘The White Rover is not my iovel chief of 
the Chickasaws,’’ she answered, somewhat im- 
patiently, and with much dignity. 

‘“Go on, daughter of the ‘Suns,’ 
alaska, in a more kindly voice. 

‘The young Frenchman is accused of incit- 
ing the neighboring red nations, and the negroes 
also, to deadly hostility against his countrymen. 
Upon this grave charge he has been imprisoned, 
and will be put to death before forty-eight hours, 
unless he be rescued by some cunning hand.” 

‘Who has charged the friendly pale face with 
a crime so heinous ?”’ 

‘* Chef Menteur.” 

“The French captain is justly named the 
‘lying chief!’ ’’ exclaimed Red-Shoe. . ‘‘ Heis 
a viper—a snake creeping in the grass, and I 
hope some day, to crush him with my heel.” 

‘‘May the Master of Life fulfil your hope,”’ 
said La Glorieuse, earnestly. ‘‘ Now tell me if 
you cannot devise some plan by which to save 
the White Rover ?”’ 

“That will be a difficult task,’ answered the 
chieftain, thoughtfully. ‘‘The French people 
are not now aware of the intentions of the red 
men, and they will be continually on the alert. 
How can I approach New Orleans without be- 
ing discovered and slain? When I put my life 
in aeerty I endanger our whole enterprise ; ; for I 
am (as you know) the prime mover in the con- 
templated warfare of extermination. The 
young man is accused of a grievous crime 
(though innocent )—for a renegade is hateful to 
all people and races, and justly deserves to die. 
He is a miscreant who betrays his own blood ; 
and every honest heart revolts against the seller 


”? said On- 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


of his kindred. While a person is supposed to 
be guilty of great wickedness, it is the same 
while that belief prevails, as though he were 
really guilty ; it is thus with our French friend, 
and when his supposed guiltiness becomes known 
among his people, they will drag -him from the 
stone house, and he will die amid mad revilings 
and execrations ; 
not become generally known, there is still no 
hope, for he will die by the order of the great 
French chief.” 

‘Onalaska, you have a fearless ety said 
the princess. ‘‘ Your hand is strong, your voice 
is terrible in battle, your feet swift to pursue an 
enemy, and your brain is full of cunning devi- 
ces. You can, by some means, save the life 
of this young Frenchman. *You are cele- 
brated for the greatness of your exploits ; per- 
form yet another sii that shall add fresh lau- 
rels to your name.’ 

“But why, beautiful princess,’’ returned the 
chief, with a soft voice and a pleasant smile, 
‘‘do you not apply to your own people, the 
Natchez?’ Are they not also great warriors, 
and are not their hearts big? Where is Strong- 
Serpent, the Great Sun ?”’ 

‘“« He knows nothing of the danger of Henri 
Deleroix. The distance to Walnut Village is 
considerable, and before anything could be done 
by the Great Sun, the friend of the Indian 
might be no more. Whatever is done for his 
rescue must be quickly done, for the justice of 
the great French chief does not linger.” 

‘* You speak well, La Glorieuse. It is far to 

the Walnut Village, and you have done wisely 
in seeking me. The White Rover has the blood 
of a hated race in his veins, but it has become 
of a red color by mingling freely among us. I 
would not have him slain fora crime of which 
he is not guilty. He ismy friend; and it were 
a shame that the friend of Onalaska should die 
without a single effort having been made to saye 
him.”’ 
* « Your brave words make the heart of the 
Natchez maiden glad,” replied La Glorieuse, 
joyfully. ‘‘She knew that Red-Shoe would not 
forsake the man he called his friend.” 


and if his imagined crime does 


9 


_| shall be soft as the falling snow. 


31 


‘« Tt shall never be said of Onalaska that he 
ran from an enemy, or forsook his friend,’’ re- 
plied the warrior, proudly. ‘‘ In this the proud 
princess has not mistaken me; but she knows 
not how truly the heart of the warrior loves her. 
She turns a deaf ear to his words; she will 
not understand the language of his eyes and ac- 
tions ; yet the lodge fire of Onalaska will never 
burn brightly and cheerfully until she kindles it 
and sits beside it. It is well that the fair de- 
scendant ofthe ‘Suns’ is called ‘ The Proud.’ ”’ 

The chieftain ceased and folded his arms 
proudly, yet sorrowfully, upon his broad chest. 

‘‘There is a time for all things, great chief- 
tain,’ observed the princess with gentle digni- 
ty. ‘* The maiden Sun did not come hither in 
the hour of darkness to listen to the eloquent 
love tales of a brave warrior. She came to ap- 
peal to his magnanimity and courage in order 
to save a friend from death, though that friend 
be of another race. It were not comely in a 
princess of the blood to make a journey to an- 
other nation to be wooed.” 

‘‘The words of La Glorieuse are just, coe 
they make the spirit of Onalaska sad,’’ return- 
ed the warrior, respectfully. “‘ Love is a senti- 
ment so strong in the hearts of brave men, that 
sometimes it is hard to conceal it. With that 
powerful sentiment the Chickasaw chief has 
long BE in vain. He will still struggle 
and be a man.’ 

‘‘The resolution is worthy of your great name 
and deeds of renown,”’ said the princess, mildly. 

‘“‘ If the peerless Sun would cease to have me 
love her, let her speak less generously of my 
deeds ; for praise is sweet indeed when it drops 
from her sweet lips,”’ 
voice soft as woman’s when she would please. 

‘Then must the subject be changed,’’ re- 
plied La Glorieuse, with a pleasant smile. 
‘Will the chieftain tell the daughter of the 
Natchez what he proposes to do for the White 
Rover ?”’ 

‘‘When the night has come, and darkness 
has fallen upon the face of the earth, Onalaska 
will seek the village of the French. His step 
He will steal 


returned Onalaska, in a | ' 


32 


along like the crawling serpent. He will scale 
the prison fence, remove the bars of a window, 
and the White Rover shall be free.”’ 

‘‘ The war-chief will need the aid of a white 
man,’’ said La Glorieuse. ‘‘ There is one call- 
ed Pierre Moran, who might be useful.” 

‘‘ He is a brave man, though a Frenchman,”’ 
replied Onalaska. ‘‘ He was but lately rescued 
from the waters of Onalaska hy the hand of the 
White Rover. His heart is large towards him. 
Red-Shoe will consider upon what La Glorieuse 
has said.” 

‘‘The errand of the Natchez girl is done,”’ 
. replied the princess. ‘‘ Her heart is full of 
gratitude. She will hasten back to speak 
comforting words to the woman of the soft 
voice.”’ 

With a smile and a graceful wave of the hand, 
she turned and walked quickly away. Onalas- 
ka gazed after her until her figure was hidden 
by the trees. The first rays of the rising sun 
fell along the quiet lake. With a sigh, Onalas- 
ka sought the encampment of his warriors. 

The chieftain had gone but a short distance, 
when, emerging from the shade of some tall 
sycamores, he perceived a white man with a ri- 
fle on his shoulder, moving rapidly towards 
Lake Ponchartrain. 

‘‘ Pierre Moran!’ shouted Red-Shoe, in a 
loud voice. 

The hunter stopped and looked about him. 
Suddenly his eyes rested on the majestic figure 
of Onalaska. He cocked his rifle, and bringing 
it to his shoulder, laid his face upon the breech 
and glanced along the deadly barrel. 

‘‘ Hold!’ cried Red-Shoe; ‘‘I have news 
from the White Rover.”’ 

The breech of Pierre Moran’s rifle fell to the 
ground when the sound of the White Rover’s 
name reached his ears. 

‘¢ We did not part on the best of terms, On- 
alaska, but if you have aught to say concerning 
Henri Deleroix, I am ready to hear you,’’ re- 
plied Moran. 

‘The young Frenchman is shut up in the 
stone house,’’ said the chief. 

‘‘T know it,’’ answered Moran. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘“‘The great chief of the French will put him 
to death,’’ added Onalaska. j 

‘“‘Ts that all you wished to say to me?” teé- 
turned Pierre. . 

‘* Would you not save him if you could?’ 
said Red-Shoe. 

‘* At the risk of my life,” rejoined Pierre. 

‘‘ Prisons, I have heard, have been brok- 
en and the condemned set at liberty,” ad- 
ded the chieftain. | 

‘‘That’s very true,’ resumed Pierre, mu- 
singly. 

Red-Shoe watched the countenance of the 
hunter in silence. 

‘*‘ What do you propose to do?” asked Mo- 
ran, while a new gleam of light seemed to flash 
into his mind. 

‘“Save the White Rover from death,’’ re- 
plied Red-Shoe. ‘‘I have called him friend 
in hours of safety and peace, and now I will 
prove my friendship in hours of adversity and 
danger. He is unworthy the sacred name of 
friend who flies at the approach of misfortune.” 

‘What do I hear!” exclaimed Moran. 
‘Are these indeed the words of an Indian 
chief? Whence come those lofty sentiments? 
who taught you a code of honor so noble—so 
honorable both to heart and head ?”’ 

‘‘T was educated in the great school of Na- 
ture; I have received instruction fram evyery- 
thing you can see about you; from trees and 
flowers; from hills, mountains and valleys ; 
from lakes, rivers and plains !’’ replied Onalas- 
ka, proudly. 

‘‘ {tis well spoken, savage chieftam. Your 
words might well put many a Frenchman to the 
blush.”’ 

‘¢ Frenchman !’’ exclaimed Onalaska, with an 
expression of ineffable contempt. ‘‘ Talk not 
of Frenchmen to me ; they are overrunning my 
country and destroying my people.” 

The chief folded his arms upon his breast, 
and his chest heaved with unutterable emotions. 

‘¢ Warrior,’ said Pierre Moran, after a short 
interval of silence, ‘‘ are you willing to forget 
your hatred of the French for a night and as- 
sist me to rescue Henri Delcroix from the mesh- 


- 


alaska, ‘‘ but not mortally. 


oa 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


es of villany that have been so artfully woven 
around him ?”’ 

‘“<T am, and for that reason I spoke to you 
when I saw you hurrying away. Meet me here 
to-morrow night, and we will enter the French 
village together.”’ 

** Most willingly ; youmay reply upon me. 
I owe the White over a debt of gratitude, as 
you know, and I will repay it at the hazard of 
my life.” ° 

“Take this belt of wampum,” replied Red- 
Shoe ; ‘‘ wear it about your waist. If you fall 
in with any of my people, it will save you from 
their vengeance.’’ 

Moran took the belt. He was in the act of 
fastening it upon his person in the manner indi- 
cated, when the sharp crack of a rifle resounded 
through the woods, and a bullet whistled through 
his long beard within an inch of his chin, and 
passing near the head of Red-Shoe, lodged in 
the trunk of a cottonwood. A tuft of hair sev- 
ered by the leaden messenger fell upon the hun- 
ter’s bosom. 

Simultaneously Pierre and Onalaska plunged 
into the forest and ran swiftly towards the point 
whence came the harmless shot. They saw a 
slender column of smoke curling up through 
the trees, and then the figure of a man running 
with much speed. 

Pierre Moran raised hisrifle and fireda The 
distance was long, but the shot evidently took 
effect. The runner faltered in his flight, swayed 
to one side like one drunken, and then flew on 
again with arrow-like swiftness towards New 
Orleans. 

‘‘ He is wounded in the shoulder,”’ said On- 
It is useless to pur- 
sue him farther, for he is swift of foot.”’ 

‘Do you know him ?”’ asked the hunter. 

“‘T know him well. He is called Htte-Ac- 
tal, the Natchez renegade.”’ . 

‘« And is doubtless in the employ of Lesage,”’ 
added Moran. 

‘« A fit companion for chef menteur,’ 
Red-Shoe. 

“‘T now remember having seen Lesage in 
close conference with an Indian: he was thus 


> 


replied 


33 


engaged the last time I saw him at New Or- 
leans. He has employed this renegade to rid 
him of one too deeply in his confidence. The 
fact is, Captain Lesage mistook hisman. From 
certain things which he had heard, he formed 
the opinion that I was a sort of brigand and 
common assassin, ready to sell my services to 
the highest bidder without remorse. But he 
has discovered his mistake, and now knows that 
the tales which he heard in relation to me were 
false as his own base heart, and seeks my de- 
struction in order that I may not betray his 
plans. It is not safe to listen to every idle ru- 
mor, nor to write a man down a villain because 
his face is not a prepossessing one. That shot 
was aimed at me,’’ said Moran. 

‘‘And if he dees not eventually succeed in 

killing you, it will be because you bear a charm- 
ed life,’’? returned Red-Shoe. 
- ‘JT have often heard the name of the Natchez 
renegade, but never met him in my wanderings ; - 
but if chance should ever throw him in my way, 
he will not live to say he has seen Pierre Mo- 
ran again—the hunter of the Mississippi Val- 
ley.” | 

“Tf there is anything on earth that my soul 
turns from with loathing, it is a renegade,”’ said 
Red-Shoe. 

‘Anda coward, you might have added,” 
said Pierre. 

“Tt is well thought of, brave Frenchman. 
A renegade and a coward may be coupled to- 
gether, and not be unequally yoked.” 

While Red-Shoe was speaking, an object met 
the eye of Pierre Moran well calculated to try 
the courage of both. The hunter's practised 
ear had heard a slight sound among the branches 
of the trees. Looking up with the quickness 
of a veteran of the woods, he saw a huge and 
well known animal crouched upon the limb of a 
lofty oak, not a dozen yards from the chief, who 
was a little in advance. 

‘¢ Look !’’ said the hunter, in a suppressed 
voice, without withdrawing his fixed gaze from 
the terrible monster. The warrior yaised his 
eyes and saw death staring him in the face ; for 
it was the animal most dreaded by the red men, 


54 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


and called almost universally by the singular | long bristling hair about the huge jaws worked 


name of the ‘“ Indian Devil.’’* 

The bravest of the brave, if he discovered the 
track of the panther when hunting, turned back 
with a shudder. He feared to encounter an an- 
imal so powerful, and endowed with a cunning 
almost human. He had rather meet some war- 
party of his enemies at fearful odds, for with 
them he could fight with some hope of success ; 
but who could eontend with a foe that could not 
be seen until his resistless paws were rending him 
in pieces, or until he looked down from some 
stately tree in the act of springing! No; the 
Indian did not choose to make war upon the sa- 
gacious and all-conquering panther. 

Onalaska met the gaze of the monster with 
Roman firmness. The fore paws of the animal 
were thrust out along a large limb, and the 
hinder legs were drawn up under him. The 
hair upon the back seemed to stand erect, and 
there was an undulating, snaky motion of the long 
tail. The eyes sent forth malignant fires— 
flashed and burned like glowing coals. The 
mouth was slightly open, displaying rows of 
white, sharp teeth, and the tongue lying within 
them like the sting of some monster serpent. 
His hot breath seemed to have infected the air 
and made it rank with the odor of death. The 





* The panther has thus been styled by the Indians. 


and trembled with the quivering motion of the 
nether lip—an indication of hostility too deadly 
not to be known to the quick eye of the hunter. 

The hand of Red-Shoe was upon his knife. 
He had laid it there at the moment of looking 
upward ; for he had left his rifle at the encamp- 
ment—a neglect which now promised to prove 
fatal to the chief. The panther was evidently 
about to leap, and had chosen the nearest vic- 
tim ; this the proud Indian knew, but govern- 
ing, with the strength of a disciplined and 
mighty will, the natural shrinkings of human 
nature, he appeared calm and self-reliant. 

The panther drew himself back upon his 
haunches, with his fore feet still placed upon 
the trunk of the limb, while the motions of the 
tail grew quicker and more decided, and the 


eyes literally appeared to dart rays of flame. 


The nerves of the hunter were still. There 
was no tremor of the hand or heart when he 
suddenly raised his rifle; no film of terror 
dimmed his eyes as he glanced along the barrel, 
and brought the unerring sights to bear upon 
the scourge of the forest. 

Pierre Moran fired ; the panther leaped and 
fell quivering at the chieftain’s feet. A few 
throes of expiring agony convulsed its frame, 
and the beatings of its heart were hushed forever. 


@ - 


CHAPTER .VIL 


THE RENEGADE. 


Hrtn-Actat—the renegade —was one of the 
most cunning of his race, without the redeem- 
ing qualities of truth and nobleness of soul, traits 
of character often found among the Natchez. 

Compelled to fly from his own pecple on ac- 
count of his duplicity and wickedness, he had 
found a temporary home among the French, of: 
ten acting as a spy, and sometimes asa guide, 
though not very highly esteemed by his em- 
ployers, who feared to trust him out of their 
sight when there was any probability that another 
party might feel disposed to buy him over to 
their interest by the offer of a more liberal re- 
ward. | 
~ To a scheming and plotting man like Lesage, 
he was indeed a valuable acquisition, notwith- 
standing his well known treachery; for it was 
these very qualities that he wished to call into 
action in order to’ carry forward his plans. 

Making the renegade a few presents occasion- 
ally, and liberal promises, he soon won him 
over to his service, and acquired considerable 
influence upon his mind. Lesage, after learn- 


ing that Pierre Moran was not the nian he had 


been represented, was filled with apprehensioit. 
He had good reason to fear that his dark plot- 
tings, for the destruction of Henri Deleroix, 
might transpire and come to the ears of the govs 
ernor, which might result in the most serious 
consequences to himself. In order to prevent 
an exposure so important, and perhaps fatal, he 
determined to involve Pierre Moran in the 
same destruction which he had so ingeniously 
prepared for Henri. Being now on intimate 
terms with his excellency, on account of the val- 
uable service he had, apparently, rendered un 
der circumstances of peculiar emergency, it 
needed but a word to procure the arrest of Mo- 
ran ; but the latter, as we have seen, fled to 
the woods in time to avoid the catastrophe. 
Thus baffled, the captain resolved upon an- 
other plan of operation. He lost no time in 
finding Ette-Actal, who, for a trifling sum, 
agreed to rid him of one he had so much reason 
to dread. Stimulated by the hope of reward, 
and urged on by the natural cruelty of -his dis- 
position, the renegade had entered with alacrity 
upon the task assigned him. An opportunity 


36 


offered itself sooner than he expected; but he 
had missed his mark, and received in return a 
painful though not dangerous wound in the 
shoulder. Recovering from the momentary 
shock, he ran forward with great swiftness, and 
abated not his speed until he reached the border 
of the French settlement. Feeling compara- 
tively safe from pursuit, he proceeded to bind 
up his wound as well as the circumstances of 
the case would admit. 

Having completed this necessary task, he sat 
down upon a mossy knoll, smarting with pain 
and faint with the loss of blood. The renegade, 
like many of his race, was extravagantly fond of 
fire-water, and while cogitating a plan to grati- 
fy his taste for the dangerous beverage, the pain 
of his wound gradually ceased, and overcome 
with fatigue, he sank into a profound slumber. 
From this happy state of unconsciousness he was 
aroused by a gentle touch upon the shoulder. 

Upon opening his heavy eyes, with a start of 
surprise, he beheld Lesage standing beside him 
with an anxiomgexpression upon his face. 

‘« What news?’ he asked, hurriedly. 

The renegade looked vacantly into his face 
without reply. 

‘‘Mon Dieu! what ails the man!’ he ex- 
claimed, impatiently. ‘‘ Can you tell me any- 
thing of Pierre Moran ?”’ he added, quickly. 

‘* White hunter is gone long journey,”’ re- 
plied the Indian, gravely. 

ff Where is he gone?” 
him escape % ?”? asked Lesage. 

‘« Gone towards the Boulos oi very long— 
never come back.” 

“What !”’ exclaimed the ‘‘ lying chief,”’ his 
face lighting up with a sudden gleam of intelli- 
gence and triumph. 

‘The land of souls is far off,’ added the 
renegade. ‘‘ When the red man goes there he 
travels toward the south, through great forests 
and over high mountains, until he reaches the 
river that separates the happy hunting grounds 
from the country of mortal men; there he finds 
a white stone canoe, and passes over to the 
country of shadows. The white hunter has 
gone there, and now talks with the shadowy 


people.” 


Why did you let 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘‘ When was the deed done, and how *”” asked 
Lesage, in an eager and excited tone. 

‘* Does the French chief see this?” said the 
renegade, pointing to his blanket, which was 
saturated with blood. 

‘‘T see—you are wounded,” answered Le- 
sage. 

‘‘ Yes; I found the hunter in the woods. 
He was not alone. He was talking with Red- 
Shoe, the great warrior. AsI stood watching 
him, I stepped upon a dry limb and made a 
He looked up and saw me. The white 
hunter is very skilful with his rifle, and he fired 
before I could cock my gun, and I received a 
ball in my shoulder. I instantly fired. Pierre 
Moran fell, and I fled.’’ 

‘But are you sure you inflicted a mortal 
wound ?”’ asked Lesage. 

‘“‘ Very sure, for I took aim at his head. 
Neither white man nor red can live when shot 
through the head,” replied Htte-Actal. 

For a short time the captain was silent, lost, 
apparently in the maze of his own thought. 

‘* Are you badly wounded ?”” he eet; look- 
ing steadfastly at the renegade. 

‘‘ Very sore; have much pain; want strong 
water,” said the renegade. 

‘“‘T have a bottle of the fire-water in my pock- 
et,”’ replied Lesage. ‘‘‘ It will do you good.” 

The captain paused, and looked towards Lake 
Borgne intently. 

‘“T thought I heard a sound,”’ he added, 
with well affected alarm. ‘‘ Ette- Actal, your 
eyes are quick and strong; look steadfastly in 
that direction.” | 

The renegade turned his eyes towards the 
point indicated, and gazed fixedly, for he had 
some fears that it might be Pierre Moran him- 
self. While he was thus engaged, Lesage emp- 
tied into the bottle he had drawn from his pock- 
et, the contents of a small phial. When the 
renegade turned towards him again, the captain 
placed the bottle of strong water in his hand. 

“Drink,” he said, with a smile. ‘‘ It will 
make your heart big with courage ;. it will quiet 


noise. 


your pain ; it will make you forget all your sor- 


rows; it wilf make you sleep soundly, ay, very 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


soundly ; it will cause you to feel all the joys 
of the happy hunting grounds, and to dream of 
the white stone canoe, with its shining paddles, 
which floats on the waters of the river of life. 
Drink, red man, drink.’’ 

The renegade placed the bottle beneath his 
blanket with a smile of satisfaction. 

“You have done me an important service,” 
added Lesage. ‘‘ Come to me to-morrow, and 
I will give you twenty pounds.”’ There was a 
smile—though scarcely perceptible—of peculiar 
significance on the lips of the captain as he 
spoke these words and turned away. Ina few 
minutes he had disappeared among the trees, re- 
peating to himself his last remark. 

«Yes, come to me to-morrow, and [I will give 
you twenty pounds !” 

The renegade drew the bottle of strong water 
from beneath his blanket, and holding it up be- 
tween his eyes and the sun, thus apostrophized 
it: | 

‘Great medicine art thou. The red man is 
strong, but thou art stronger. Thou makest 
lions of lambs. Thou causest the heart to beat 
madly with joy. Thou givest courage to the 
coward, and takest the strength from the limbs 
ofthe bravest warrior. A strange thing art thou, 
O fire-water !” 

As Ette-Actal concluded his speech, he raised 
the bottle to his lips. 

“Hold !”’ said a clear, ringing voice. 

The renegade turned his head towards the 
speaker, and beheld the majestic figure of La 
Glorieuse regarding him with an expression of 
unutterable contempt, not unmingled with pity. 

Abashed and confounded the renegade avert- 
ed his eyes, nor dared to meet the disdainful 
glance of the princess again. 

‘* Contemptible traitor !’’ said La Glorieuse, 
‘‘ what would you give to feel like an honest 
man! But that can never be. Never again 
can you look one of your people in the face. 
You are cursed forever with the name of rene- 
gade !”’ : 

Ette-Actal lifted not his head, and attempted 
no reply. He was not yet so dead to honor and 
shame as not to feel the force of her keen _re- 
3 


37 


buke. ‘‘ You have turned traitor to the Natch- 
ez, and sold yourself to Chef Menteur,” added 
the princess. ‘‘ In this case falsehood has met 
falsehood, and treachery has met treachery. It 
is thus that the wicked are punished. You 
have served Chef Menteur, and you have de- 
ceived him also, and he has rewarded you with 
death—just recompense for crimes like yours.” 

‘‘ Death!” exclaimed the renegade. 

“Yes, death,” added the princess, ‘‘ and it 
is in that bottle.” 

‘‘ You always’said that the white man’s fire- 
water was bad,” replied the renegade, relieved 
of his fears. 

‘“« Tt were, perhaps, no more than just,’”’ con- 
tinued La Glorieuse, in the same lofty, rebuk- 
ing tone, ‘‘to let you reap the reward of your 
villany ; but the contemplation of such a loath- 
some object moves me to compassion, and I will 
stoop to save you from death to which the lying 
chief has doomed you. He has repaid you for 
attempting the life of the white hunter by pois- 
oning the accursed fire-water which you were 
about to swallow. I stood behind yonder tree ; 
I heard all—and to bafile a greater villain than 
yourself, I condescend to save you. Were you 
to drink the contents of that bottle, you would 
never see the sun go down again in the distant 
west ; and to-morrow morning when he comes 


| up refreshed and brighter, his beams would fall 


upon a dead body, and a face distorted with the 
protracted agony of the death-struggle. Hun- 
ters passing this would say, with a look of con- 
tempt, ‘ It is the body of the renegade.’ ”’ 

Ette-Actal shuddered ; for a traitor is invari- 
ably afraid of death. : 

‘« The fire-water you say is poisoned !’’ he ex- 
claimed. 

“Yes, I say it, and. speak truly. I sawhim 
pour in the deadly drug, and noted the expres- 
sion of his face. Do you remember what he 
said: ‘ Ktte-Actal, your eyes are strong and 
quick ; look steadfastly towards Lake Borgne.’ 
While you were doing as you were bidden, he 
drugged the fire-water.”’ 

‘“‘T thank you, princess,’’ said the renegade, 
with some feeling. ‘‘ And though I am cast 


> 


38 


out from among my people, and wander up and 
down with the broad brand of infamy upon my 
brow, I will not forget this service. Ifthe time 
should ever come when one like me can serve 
La Glorieuse, I shall be ready to peril my life 
for her sake.”’ 

‘« Tt is well,” replied the princess, in a more 
friendly tone. ‘‘ Hven a renegade may have 
some feelings in common with others. You 
have rendered yourself unworthy to serve me, 
but I will forget it and allow you to render me 
an important service.” 

‘¢ Speak your will, princess,’”’ replied Hite 
Actal, humbly. 

‘‘Hasten to the Walnut Village, and tell 
Stung Serpent—the Great Sun—to send me 
twelve of the bravest warriors without delay. 
Bid him mount them upon the fleetest horses, 
and to send two of the best for the use of the 
princess,’ said La Glorieuse. 

‘* But no one would speak to me, or credit 
my words, should I do as you bid me,”’ returned 
the renegade, while his red face grew crimson 
with shame. 

‘‘ T understand,’’ resumed the princess, draw- 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


ing a ring from her finger. ‘‘ Take this, and it 
will save you from insult and abuse. Go boldly 
and fear nothing. But I had nearly forgotten 
your wound ; will it prevent you from travel- 
ling ?”’ 

‘Tt will not prevent me from travelling to 
serve La Glorieuse,” replied the renegade. 

‘« Then away upon your journey, and remem- 
ber that I have power to wipe away a portion of 
your disgrace. Serve me well in whatever I 
bid you, and I will not prove ungenerous. 
But mark me ; attempt no deceit ; I will not 
be trifled with, for I am a. princess, and have 
power to crush you into the dust, were I dis- 
posed to retaliate upon one who has proved him- 
self unworthy of his origin. Appear the same 
to Chef Menteur as hitherto. If he should be 
surprised to see you among living men—and be 
assured he will—do not heed it; still manifest 
the same willingness to serve him » but find 
some way to convey to me a thorough knowl- 
edge of all his plans. Do you hear and compre- 
hend. me, Ette-Actal ?” 

‘‘T hear and comprehend, daughter of the 
Sun,”’ answered the renegade. 


re CHAPTER VII. 


AN INTERVIEW. 


IMMEDIATELY after the arrest of Henri, fath- 
er Davion had hastened to the residence of De 
Bienville. A servant assured him that the gov- 
ernor was engaged and could be seen; but 
the good old man, stimulated by his love for his 
young friend, had urgently persisted in his re- 
quest. 

** Go back,”’ said Davion, with dignity, ‘‘ and 
tell your master that his old friend—a man with 
white hairs—demands audience.”’ 

Awed by the dignified and authoritative air 
of Father Davion, the attendant obeyed, and 
soon returned with the welcome intelligence 
that his excellency would grant him a very brief 
interview in the course of half an hour. Bid- 
ding him wait the governor’s leisure in the ante- 
room, the servant withdrew. His heart was a 
prey to the most intense anxiety. He paced 
the apartment impatiently, indulging in a thou- 
sand conjectures in relation to the cause of 
Henri’s arrest. 

“« Father Davion !”’ said a gentle voice. 

‘‘ Helen Lerowe!’’ exclaimed the priest, 
while a momentary gleam of happiness, and 


hope irradiated his venerable face. ‘I was 
thinking of you. Can you inform me what this . 
strange proceeding portends ?”’ 

‘*T do not comprehend you. I know not to 
what proceeding you allude,’ replied Helen, 
somewhat confused, for at that moment she 
recalled to mind what had passed between her- 
self ‘and Henri upon the morning of that very 
day. 

‘‘ Henri Delcroix has been arrested by the 
order of the governor, and is now in prison,”’ 
said Davion. 

The face of Helen Lerowe grew pale as mar- 
ble. She recoiled a step and grasped a chair 
for support. 

‘‘ Speak again, good father !”” she exclaimed, 
with emotion. ‘‘ Ido not well understand what 
you said.” 

‘« Alas! my poor girl, you, comprehend me 
but too well, as that changing cheek and those 
trembling limbs confess. My dear boy has 
fallen under the governor’s displeasure, and I 
know not for what, and I am here, at this late 
hour, to seek an interview with him. I will 


40 


never leave his presence until I know of what 
he is accused,”’ said Davion, emphatically. 

‘‘T can whisper a single name in your ear, 
Father Davion, that will furnish a key to un- 
lock the whole mystery,”’ replied Helen. 

‘‘Speak it, my good Helen,” added the 
priest. 

‘* Lesage |’? said Helen, impressively. 

For a moment Davion made no reply, but 
stood lost in his own reflections. 

‘* A light breaks in upon my mind,”’ he said, 
at length. ‘‘ I think I perceive some faint glim- 
merings of the truth. He has paid much de- 
ference to you of late, Helen.» I am old, but 
Tam not blind. Though I may not grasp a 
new idea with the same quickness that a younger 
man might, yet when a key to a train of 
thoughts and actions has been given me, I can 
follow them up with wonderful facility. Tell 
me, daughter, has Captain Lessage annoyed 
you 2” 

‘JT would that I could answer in the nega- 
tive,’ said Helen. 

‘T regret that this is so,’’? added Davion. 

‘‘ And no one regrets it more deeply than 
myself,”’ rejoined Helen, with a sigh. 

‘« Save your lover,”’ returned the priest. 

Helen’s eyes sought the floor, nor did she 
venture to raise them for sometime. 

‘‘ Nay, Helen, spare your blushes. Henri 
Deleroix is worthy your love,’’ added Davion. 

‘‘Then you do not reproach us?” replied 
Helen. 

‘*T reproach you not, neither do I approve. 
Were you differently situated in life, it would 
make my heart glad to see my two children—I 
have called you children for many years—united 
and made happy in a mutual love; but as you 
both are now situated, I can see nothing be- 
fore you but disappointment and sorrow. May 
God in mercy avert the impending calamity, 
and temper the winds of trouble to the shorn 
lamb.”’ 

‘“« Most fervently and humbly I join in the 
petition,’ added Helen, devoutly. ) 

‘‘Can you tell me who is with the goy- 
ernor ?”” 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘* Captain Lesage,’’ replied Helen. 

‘« Willing his ears with poison,’’ added Dav- 
ion, with emphasis. ‘‘I must fathom that man 
—I must read his purposes as I would read 
abook. There is something -wrong; it shall 
be mine to find it and bring it to the light.” 

At that moment the servant re-appeared with 
the ittelligence that the governor was ready to 
see him. 

‘* Helen,’ he added, in a low voice, as 
he passed from the ante-room, ‘‘meet me in 
the ante-room, after my interview with De Bien- 
ville.”’ 

As he followed the servant he saw Lesage de- 
part by a private entrance. 

‘¢ Father Davion,’’ said De Bienville in a 
mild though firm voice, ‘‘ I well know why you 
have sought me. Out of compassion to you, 
and to spare myself an ungenial task, I had 
thought to refuse you an audience; but you 
have prevailed.”’ 

‘«Save your compassion for another object,”’ 
replied the priest. ‘‘ I require it not. I have 
arrived at that age when I require compassion 
only of my Maker. I shall ask no pity for these — 
gray hairs, of men; when I appeal for mercy 
for myself, it shall be to Heaven. I now ask 
but little of the world, De Bienyille. I shall 
soon exchange the cowl for the crown, and the 
domino for the white garment.” 

‘* May you be spared to us long, Father Da- 
vion,”’ replied the governor, respectfully. 

‘*« May He spare me no longer than [am use- 
ful. When I cease to benefit my fellow-men 
—to love merey, to deal justly, and to walk 
humbly with God, then may I cease to exist. 
Now, your excellency, will you inform me why 
Henri Deleroix has been imprisoned ?” 

‘“‘Tf you desire it, I assuredly will, however 
much the duty may pain me, and afflict yourself. 
Henri Deleroix, the young man who has been 
the object of your fostering care from child- 
hood, the early companion of Helen, and the 
object of no little interest even to me, has been 
convicted of one of the most aggravated of all 
crimes, the blackest of all sins—the extreme 
wickedness of betraying his countrymen to a 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


eruel and remorseless enemy, selling helpless 
women and children to the batchet and _scalp- 
ing knife. He is a traitor—forgetful of the 
hand that fed him, of the people who gave him 
a home, of the blood that flows in his veins ; 
and by all that is sacred, were he my own son, 
or my own brother, he should die before forty- 
eight hours, were it the last act of my admin- 
istration.”’ 

‘““No! no!’ exclaimed Father Davion, 
trembling with the violence of his emotions. 
‘It cannot be so; there must be some mistake. 
It is not in human nature to be so base.”’ 

“Father Davion,” said the governor, in 
tones of thrilling solemnity, ‘‘ there is no mis- 
take; but I would that mistake were possible. 
I have proof positive of his guilt. Do not, as 
you love justice, and respect yourself, and me, 
and the authority vested in me, attempt to move 
me to compassion, or to shake my resolution. — 
I tell you there is no alternative ; he must die 
—and he shall.” 

While De Bienville spoke, his eyes flashed 
fire, his nostrils seemed to dilate like those of 
the war-horse when he smells the battle afar off, 
and feels that he must rush into the thickest of 
the fight ; his chest rose and fell with the vio- 
lence of his emotions, and his fingers worked 
convulsively upon the pen which he held in his 
right hand. . 

“* With this, my pen,’”’ he added, in a voice 
of deep energy, ‘‘ I will sign the death warrant 
_of Henri Delcroix !” 

Father Davion was awed by the solemn and 
energetic manner of De Bienville. 

‘* Be calm,” he said, after a pause, ‘‘and let 
me hear what proof you have of Henri’s guilt.”’ 

The governor then entered into a detailed 
account of the whole conspiracy, as he under- 
stood it. The testimony of Captain Lesage 
was adduced, bolstered up by the testimony of 
the negroes ; and all the evidence that tended 
to criminate Henri was skilfully summed up. 

When he had finished, he looked sorrowfully 
at Father Davion. The latter was confounded ; 
for the chain of evidence was indeed very per- 
fect, and no links appeared wanting. 


4] 


‘“‘Can you now say, good father, that I have 

not followed the dictates of a sound judgment 
in condemning this young man?’ said the goy- 
ernor. . 
“‘T see, indeed, astartling array of evidence ; 
but my heart is not yet convinced, though the 
head is somewhat at a loss. Believe me, there 
is some duplicity and wickedness at the bottom 
of all this. Governor De Bienyille, I pro- 
nounce it all the work of a cunning and insidi- 
ous enemy ; though I confess I cannot explain 
it,”’ replied Davion, with much embarrassment ; 
but the fact of his being embarrassed served to 
confirm the governor in his opinions, and afford- 
ed him an advantage 

‘* The young man has no enemies that I know 
of,”” replied his excellency, with a shake of the 
head. % 

‘You will, at least, grant him the privilege 
of an impartial trial ?’’ exclaimed Father Davy- 
ion, overwhelmed with grief. — 

‘* He shall be brought before me to-morrow, 
and I shall examine him myself, and he shall 
be placed face to face with his accuser. But 
believe me, Father Davion, it will be a mere 
matter of form; for you see that it will be im- 
possible for him to establish his innocence, 
and the evidence against him is directly to the 
point.”’ 

‘“Do you know, Governor De Bienville, 
that Helen Lerowe, your fair ward, loves this 
young man ?”’ added Davion, in a low, impressive 
tone. 

The face of De Bienville turned deadly pale. 
He fell back into his chair, from which he had 
partly arisen, as if he had received a crushing 
blow upon his person. For a moment he sat 
and looked into the face of the priest with an 
air of vacant wonder. By a masterly effort the 
governor recovered in a measure his self-posses- 
sion. The color came back to his face; he 
passed his hand over his brow as if collecting 
his scattered thoughts, and then replied in a 
voice tolerably calm, though much changed : 

‘‘This is news indeed; it fills me with as- 
tonishment. How long since you were certain 
of this ?”’ 


42 


‘¢ Within the hour. I had it from Helen’s 
lips.”’ 

‘* Leave me, Father Davion,”’ said De Bien- 
ville, abruptly. ‘‘I would fain be alone — 
Tam as tired of governing as ever Sancho 
Panza was when he was governor of Barra- 
taria.”’ 

“Do not act hastily,” added Davion.— 
‘« Remember that he is to me as Benjamin was 
to Jacob. If aught should befall the young 
man, it would bring down my gray hairs in 
sorrow to the grave. For. my sake, and for 
Helen’s sake, be merciful, and be just also.” 

‘Be assured that I will be just,’’ returned 
the governor, somewhat coldly. 

‘‘ One word more, your excellency ; do not 
forget that I do not yet believe Henri guilty, 
however much circumstances may seem to crim- 
inate him.” 

““Who do you suspect of plotting against 
him ?”’ 

“Captain Lesage,” 
promptly. 

*«« And for what reason ?”’ 

‘* Because he regards him in the light of a 
dangerous rival.” 

«Such baseness cannot exist,’’ rejoined De 
Bienville. 

‘‘ Perhaps you are not aware that Captain 
Lesage is already known among the Indians as 
Chef Menteur, or lying chief,” added Father 
Davion. 

‘« Considering how much you love the young 
man, I pardon the insinuations which you are 
pleased to make against the character of a brave 
and zealous officer,”’ returned the governor. 

“* He has zeal, it is true; but I much doubt 
that it is according to knowledge,’’ replied 
Father Davion. 

** We shall see ; good night, Father Davion.”’ 

‘Good night, your excellency, and may God 
grant you the excellent wisdom of a Daniel to 
detect the hidden wickedness of this matter.”’ 

Bowing respectfully, the priest left the pres- 
ence of the governor. Helen was awaiting him 
in the ante-room, with pale and anxious face. 
The sorrowful looks of Father Davion did not 


replied the priest, 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


tend to re-assure her. She would have gladly 
asked many questions, but her tongue refused 
to perform its office. 

‘‘ You desire to know the worst,’’ said the ° 
priest, kindly taking Helen by the hand: ‘‘I 
will tell you the truth and conceal nothing from 
you, Henri is in imminent peril.” 

‘With what crime is he charged ?”’ asked 
Helen, with a strong effort. | 

‘The crime of selling his country to the tn 
dians,”’ said Davion. 

‘Tt isa base slander !”? exclaimed Helen. 
‘Henri Delcroix is not guilty of such wick- 
edness. He is too good, too generous, too 
noble !’’ 

‘«So I believe, my daughter; and I love to 
hear you speak his praise when other tongues 
revile him.”’ } 

Father Davion then explained the nature 
of the evidence which was to conyict the young 
man of so heinous a crime. During the re- 
cital, the cheeks of Helen glowed with in- 
dignation. 

“The plot is deep, dangerous, and artfully 
contrived,’”’ said Helen, when the priest had 
concluded. ‘‘ But it does not shake my faith 
in the integrity of Henri, or the protecting 
providence of a just God. The mask must fall 
eventually from the face of Lesage, and he will 
be seen in all the despicable deformity of his 
character.”’ 

‘No doubt but it will be so, my child ; but 
we must not forget that it possibly may idl be 
until after the sacrifice is consummated and 
Henri is—”’ ) 

‘‘ Speak not the cruel words, good father !”’ 
exclaimed Helen, ‘‘for it must not be. The 
governor is not cruel. I will seek him—I will 
beg him upon bended knee to spare Henri.” 

‘‘T would not dampen the ardor’ of your 
hopes,’’ replied Davion, sadly; ‘‘ but you are 
aware that De Bienville is a man of firmness 
and resolution.” 

Bestowing his abierg upon rélat, Father 
Davion left the governor’s mansion and hasten- 
ed toward his own lowly dwelling, looking sor- 
rowfully at the prison as he passed. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE TRIAL. 


Accompanten by our readers, we will now re- 
turn to the hero of our story, whom we left in 
prison, with heavy irons upon his hands. His 
first emotions upon finding himself so unceremo- 
niously incarcerated, were those of indignation 
and surprise. 

Utterly ignorant of what crime he was ac- 
cused, he taxed his imagination in vain for an 
adequate cause for such treatment. That Le- 
sage was the active agent of his misfortunes, he 
did not doubt; but the means employed, was 
the subject that perplexed him. Guilty of no 
infractions upon the laws of the colony, he was 
far from entertaining even a suspicion of his 
danger. 

The thought which annoyed him most deeply 
was a well-defined fear that he might be dis- 
graced in the eyes of Helen Lerowe ; or that by 
some means during his incarceration, she might 
be induced to bestow her hand upon Lesage. 
‘This was truly a painful subject of reflection to 
Henri. 

Weary of thinking and forming conjectures, 
before morning he fell into a troubled sleep. It 


was a late hour when he awoke. The sun was 
two hours high, and his beams were streaming 
brightly into the prison through the grated win- 
dows. The turnkey entered with -water and 
food ; and though he waited a moment, evident- 
ly with the expectation of being | questioned, 
Henri was too proud to ask anything in relation 
to his imprisonment, and suffered him to depart 
without interchanging a single word with him. 

With his foot Henri dashed the jug of water 
against the wall, and the coarse bread soon 
shared the same fate. Smiling at his own im- 
patience, he arose and walked up and down his 
narrow cell, occasionally pausing to note how 
strangely the handcuffs looked upon his wrists. 

While thus employed, the door of his prison 
grated once more upon its hinges, and a file of 
men entered, headed by Sergeant Dumont. 
Obeying the motions of their leader, the armed 
men placed themselves upon each side of Henri, 
and he was conducted from the prison to the 
presence of the governor. The latter was sur- 
rounded by several of the principal officers of 
the colony, and the members of his council, 


44 


among whom were the Chevalier de Noyan, 
lieutenant governor ; Chevalier de Loubois, the 
Baron of Cresnay, Chevalier de St. Julian, De 
St. Ange, De St. Bessan, and De St. Dennis, 
besides many other distinguished: personages ; 
and Jastly, Captain Lesage. 

As the eyes of Henri wandered from one to 

another, he felt an indefinable foreboding in his 
heart. Why were the principal men of Louisi- 
ana present? What important crisis or emer- 
gency had called them together ? 

Though somewhat abashed and confounded 
for the instant, at finding himself before such an 
august body, the White Rover quickly recover- 
ed his self-possession, and walked to the prison- 
er’s box proudly erect and self-reliant. 

‘‘ A princely figure, upon my word,’’ said 
De St. Ange to the Chevalier de Noyan, who 
sat near him. | 

‘* He carries himself like a belted nist, ? ‘re- 
plied the lieutenant governor. 

«A noble figure!’’ said St. Julian, in the 
same tone. 

‘* He bears himself bravely,’’ added the Bar. 
on of Cresnay, while a buzz of approbation ran 

through the court-room ; for many of the princi- 
pal citizens had heard of the arrest, and been 
admitted to witness the trial, as his excellency 
did not wish to conduct the unfortunate affair 
wholly in private. Henri was a general favor- 
ite, and he was anxious that the whole might be 
conducted in an impartial manner, in order that 
there should be no murmuring or complaint. 

‘¢ He has not the face of a traitor,’’ resumed 
De St. Ange. 

‘‘He certainly has not,’ replied Chevalier 
de Bessan ; but judging from appearances is 
is not always righteous judgment, you know,”’ 
he added, quickly. 

The court was now called to order by the 
lieutenant governor, who made a few appropri- 
ate remarks something like the following. 

‘Knights, officers and gentlemen exercising 
authority in the colony of his majesty, king of 
France, by the order of his excellency, the gov- 
ernor, you have been requested to give your 
opinion upon a case of extraordinary interest, 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


inasmuch as it concerns the safety of every in- 
habitant of Louisiana. The prisoner at the bar 
is accused of a very great crime.”’ 

At this point of De. Noyan’s speech, Henri, 
who had arisen to his feet, leaned anxiously for- 
ward to catch his words. 

‘‘The crime of betraying one’s country is 
without its parallel in enormity ; and it is of 
this high misdemeanor that Henri Deleroix, the 
prisoner at the bar, is accused. Gentlemen, I 
am sorry to add that the proofs which have 
been found upon his person, and furnished from 
other reliable sources, scarcely admit of a doubt 
in regard to his guilt ; but notwithstanding all 
this, his excellency has thought fit to grant him 
a formal trial. The principal witnesses will 
now be called, and all the evidence against the 
prisoner will be adduced, together with any re- 
butting testimony which his friends may be able 
to bring forward.” 

While De Noyan pronounced in a clear and 
emphatic voice the nature of the transaction 
against him, the White Rover recoiled in dis- 
may. His quick and comprehensive mind 
grasped the whole subject at a glance. He saw 
himself standing, as it were, upon the brink of 
a precipice, and many unfriendly hands out- 
stretched to thrust him headlong into the abyss. 
He staggered beneath the terrible charge, and 
for a moment, it was with difficulty that he 
could stand without. support. Crushed and 
overwhelmed, he sank back into his seat the mo- 
ment De Noyan had ceased speaking. 

‘‘The young fellow is by no means without 
feeling,”’ whispered St. Julian to De Bessan. 

The latter made no reply, and Captain Le- 
sage was called to testify. He deposed and 
said that it was with extreme reluctance that he 
arose to criminate the prisoner at the bar, he 
being a young man whom he had hitherto es- 
teemed ; but he would come to the point at 
once, and not deter the court longer than was 
absolutely necessary. 

Reeently, he averred, it had pleased his ex-. 
cellency, on account of the hostile bearing of 
the various Indian tribes, to enjoin him to un- 
common vigilance in the discharge of his official 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


duties. These instructions, as in duty bound, 
he had endeavored to obey to the letter, and in 
the discharge of his duty, it had been his for- 
tune to discover the existence of the most alarm- 
ing and dangerous conspiracy that had ever 
threatened and agitated that unhappy colony. 

The first hints that he received of this matter 
were from his servant, who is a Banbara negro. 
Induced by love for his master, and promises of 
liberal reward, he revealed the startling news 
that all the Africans in the colony had conspired 
with the Indians for the total destruction of their 
masters, and all the French settlements in Lou- 
isiana. 

He drew from him, moreover, that the whole 
plot was devised by a young Frenchman. At 
a given time all the Indian nations were to rise 
simultaneously, and, assisted by the slaves, slay 
the whole population indiscriminately, without 
regard to age, sex, or condition. 

Exclamations ef horror and indignation were 
heard in every part of the room, at this portion 
of the captain’s testimony. With flushed cheek 
and throbbing brow, Henri sat gazing steadily 
‘at Lesage. 
fort that he could curb his resentment and keep 
it within bounds. Hisimpulsive nature prompt- 
ed him to leap from the prisoner’s box and stran- 
gle him on the spot; but his better judgment 
told him the folly of such a thought. 

The captain went on with much apparent 
feeling, and related the manner in which hehad 
discovered that the prisoner at the bar was the 
leader of the conspiracy. While hunting in the 
woods, near Lake Ponchartrain, he had over- 
heard a conversation between the prisoner and 
one Pierre Moran, known among the Indians 
-by the name of the Hunter. Greatly to depo- 
nent’s horror, he had heard the whole plan of 
the conspiracy discussed in the most cool and 
business-like manner. 

At this stage of the captain’s evidence, he 
entered into many minute and tedious details 
with which we shall not trouble the reader; but 
suffice it that his testimony was delivered with 
the most consummate art, and made a deep im- 
pression. At some portions, it was extremely 


It was only by a strong mental ef- 


45 


difficult for De Noyan to maintain order, so much 
were the citizens excited against the accused. 

The birch bark found upon his person at the 
time of his arrest, was then produced, and the 
diagrams and characters briefly and ingeniously 
explained. Henri acknowledged his signature 
at the bottom. 

Seven or eight of the Banbaras were then 
brought forward by the captain, and rendered 
their evidence with surprising readiness and 
unanimity. 

The guilt of Henri seemed, indeed, to have 
been fairly proved. No rebutting testimony 
was Offered, and the excitement among the cit- 
izens was every moment growing more intense. 

The governor, in a stern voice, then asked 
the prisoner what he had to say in extenuation 
of his guilt. 

With eyes flashing with scorn and indigna- 
tion, Henri arose to his feet. He folded his 
arms upon his breast, and for a moment looked 
boldly around those present. His gaze at 
length rested upon Lesage, and his nether lip 
quivered with unutterable contempt. Drawing 
up his commanding figure until he was the most 
conspicuous object in the room, while every 
muscle seemed to work with emotion, and with 
a sense of the indignity which had been offered, 
and the wrong heaped upon him, he slowly 
stretched forth his arm, and pointing his finger 
at Lesage, said, in a calm, impressive, yet terri- 
ble voice : 

‘‘T pronounce that man a perjured villain. 
The aggravated charges which he has made 
against me, I throw back into his teeth with a 
feeling of scorn too great to utter.’’ Then 
turning to the governor, he added, in a firm, 
yet respectful voice : 

‘« Your excellency, I protest that I am not 
guilty, though circumstances in the possession 
of a villain have conspired to convict me. 
but too plainly my position. I know what 
awaits me. I will not consume time by reiter- 
ating my innocence ; for I perceive that my ruin 
is accomplished, that my death is needful to one 
present—whose name I will not condescend to 
speak. It is true that there is a conspiracy on 


I see 


46 


foot, but IT am not, never was, and would scorn 
to be, its leader. It was but yesterday that I 
discovered its existence, though I have been 
free to mix with all the Indian tribes from first to 
last. In this important movement I was not 
admitted to their confidence. -It has been said 
in evidence against me that I have power over 
the minds of the red men; itis true. Were I 
at large and so disposed, I could sweep away 
all the French settlements in a day, and at 
night there would not be a single dwelling 
standing, and every head would be scalped. 
But, thank Heaven! I love my countrymen 
too well to wish them such a fate; and it gives 
me pleasure, while I stand in this august pres- 
ence, to know that I have saved them more than 
once from bloody reprisals. Governor de Bi- 
enville, permit me to advise you to station an 
efficient body of men at Natchez, and to increase 
the number of soldiers and means of defence at 
Mobile, Pensacola, and Dauphine Island; and 
in return Task but one favor (Cf the perjurer 
must have a victim), that I may die a soldier’s 
death. I havedone.”’ 

The White. Rover bowed and sat down. 

‘‘ What a proud and fearless spirit we are 
about to extinguish,”’ said the Baron of Cresnay 
to St. Ange, in a low voice, as Henri resumed 
his seat. 

‘‘T will tell you who he reminds me of,”’ re- 
plied St. Ange. ‘‘ He makes me think of Iber- 
ville, De Bienville’s brother.”’ 

The word Iberville reached the ears of the 
governor, and he turned quickly towards St. 
Ange. The latter looked towards the White 
Rover, and De Bienyille seemed lost in reflec- 
tion. 

‘‘ Let the prisoner be removed from the bar 
for a short time,’’ said the governor. ‘‘ Good 
citizens, whose opinions are not required in the 
case, will withdraw.”’ 

Henri, closely guarded, was taken to another 
part of the edifice, and very soon the hall of 
judgment was vacated by all save the governor 
and his ofiicials. 

Their discussions were short. The prisoner 
was placed again at the bar. The crowd came 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


rushing in to hear the sentence. When order 
was restored, the governor ordered Henri to 
arise. He obeyed without any visible emotion, 
and looked the man who held the keys of life 
and death, calmly in the face. 

‘* Henri Delcroix,” said his excellency, in a 
subdued and sorrowful voice, ‘‘a painful duty is 
mine ; but I may not shrink from it, however 
much I may regret that the responsibility did 
not devolve upon another man. The crime of 
which you have been convicted is one held in 
detestation by all nations and races of men, and 
it is most heinous and unnatural. Were there 
any room for doubt in regard to your guilt, you 
should assuredly have the benefit of that doubt ; 
but itis not so. All these honorable gentle- 
men, who constitute the bulwarks of Louisiana’s 
safety, agree with me that there is but one 
course to pursue—that indicated by the stern 
finger of justice. I can only mitigate the se- 
verity of your punishment; ‘your request is 
accorded ; though a traitor, you shall die the 
death of a soldier. By the advice of my 
council, two days are allowed you to prepare for 
the solemn change that awaits you. May you 
improve this brief space to such advantage that 
your deadly sin may be forgotten in that world 
of which you will soon be an inhabitant. On 
Friday next, between the hours of nine and ten, 
A. M., you will expiate your crime; and,”’ ad- 
ded the governor, in throbbing tones, ‘ may 
the Searcher of human hearts have mercy upon 
you!” | 

‘“‘T thank you,” said Henri, with a bitter 
smile, ‘‘ for the lenity which you have shown 
me in the mode of suffering the extreme penalty 
of the law. The whole has ended as I expected 
when I saw Captain Lesage arise to testify 
against me. Itis well. Men die but once; 
and my fate is in keeping with my previous his- 
tory. Thrown upon the world without name, 
without friends, without parentage, born in the 
wilds of a new country, forsaken by him who 
should have reared and protected me; fostered 
by a stranger as a deed of charity, grown to 
manhood still alone and friendless, the com- 
panion of the red man and a denizen of the wild 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


forest, a thoughtful, dreamy wanderer up and 
down these broad rivers and wide lakes, it is 
fitting that I should fulfil my destiny even as 
strangely as it began.” — 

De Bienville gazed earnestly at Henri, and 
listened to his words with breathless attention. 
De Noyan (nephew to the governor) fixed his 
eyes upon the young man with the same eager 
sympathy, while the Baron of Cresnay, De St. 
Ange, De Bessan, De St. Dennis, the Cheva- 
lier de Loubois, and De St Julien shared ea- 
gerly in the interest manifested by the governor 
and lieutenant-governor ; and there was evident- 
ly a reaction in favor of the condemned. 

Henri went on in a distinct and unshaken 
voice :. 

‘‘The French are my people, but the red 
man is my friend. His lodge has ever beea 
open to me; and the White Rover never sought 
hospitality in vain when he presented himself at 
the Indian’s door, cold, wet, thirsty, or hun- 
gry ; but notwithstanding all this, it was never 
in my thought to wrong my own people. As I 
have previously stated, it has been my fortune 
to save more than one from Indian cruelty. 


4T 


Let me assure you that the Indian tribes will 
dearly avenge my death, and it will be well 
for you to guard ever your wives and little ones 
after the sun of Friday next has gone down in 
the west. There are two ties that* death will 
never sever,’ continued Henri, with emotion. 
‘<A gray-headed old man, a foster father, will 
weep for me. And there is one other who will 
drop a tear to the memory of the White Rover 
—a foster sister—a fair and loving being, whose 
destiny I fervently pray may never be linked 
with that of the lying chief.” And Henri 
turned towards Lesage with an expression of 
withering contempt. 

‘* My dear boy ! my dear boy !”’ cried a bro- 
ken and tremulous voice, and Father Davion 
was seen forcing his way through the crowd to- 
wards the bar. De Noyan spoke in alow voice 
to the governor, and then mentioned to the 
proper officers to remand the condemned to 
prison. He was instantly taken from the bar, 
followed by Father Davion, who invoked bless- 
ings upon his head, and frantically asserted his 
entire innocence. 


CHAPTER X, 


THH ESCAPE. 


Ty was the hour of midnight. The sure her- 
alds of a storm were inthe skies. Dark masses 
of clouds were seen, at first low on the horizon’s 
verge, and then rapidly floating towards the 
zenith. The low mutterings of distant thunder 
broke in upon the silence of the night, and 
fitful flashes of lightning were seen far away in 
the west and north. 

Pierre Moran was abroad at that gloomy 
hour. He was moving swiftly towards Pont- 
chartrain from the southern margin of Lake 
Borgne. With hig trusty and inseparable com- 
panion, his double-barrelled rifle, grasped firmly 
in his right hand, he threaded his way skilfully 
through the forest. 

When near the borders of the lake he paused 
and listened with a breatheless intensity known 
only to the practised woodsman. Very soon he 
heard the shrill notes of a raven, and going for- 
ward in the direction of the sound, in a few mo- 
ments stood beside the tall figure of Red-Shoe, 
the Chickasaw chieftain. 

As Pierre joined him, a flash of lightning lit 
up the expanse, and threw a vivid glare upon 
the face of the red man; it was calm, proud, 
and haughty as ever in its expression. 


it,’? answered Red-Shoe. 


‘< You imitate the notes of the raven well,” 
said Pierre. 

‘“‘T took my lessons from nature,”’ 
Red-Shoe, with a smile. 

‘‘ How do you like the night? Is it not fay-_ 
orable to our undertaking ?’’ asked the hunter. 

‘‘ When the voice of the Great Spirit is heard 
in*the heavens, and his fire is seen in the 
clouds, men seek shelter in their lodges and 
cabins, and the warriors relax their vigilance. 
The night is good,” replied Onalaska. 

Without further remark, Pierre Moran and 
Red-Shoe moved towards New Orleans. After 
a short and rapid walk, they emerged silently 
from the forest and stood within the borders of 
the town. Both now halted and prepared them- 
selves for the hazardous enterprise upon which 
they had voluntarily entered. They examined 
their rifles, tightened their belts, and carefully 
arranged their side arms. 

‘You shall lead the way, and I will follow,” 
said Pierre Moran, who had much confidence in 
the skill of the chieftain. 

“Tt is well, since my white brother requests 
“1 shall go forward 


vtpPlied 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


very still, as though I was going to surprise a 
party of my enemies while they were asleep. 
The great hunter will follow me very close and 
make no noise. When we are near the stone 
house where the White Rover is kept, then must 
we look out for the long-knives when the fire 
burns up bright in the skies.” 

“‘ And if wwe find the sentinels watchful and 
true to their duty, what then shall we do?” 
asked Pierre Moran. 

The chieftain smiled grimly, as he replied : 

** Do as they would if they went to surprise 
an Indian village, creep softly—leap upon them 
as the panther leaps upon its prey—let the knife 
do its work and reach a vital spot. I would do 
that, white hunter.” 

“<They are my countrymen,”’ said the hunter, 
with a sigh. ‘‘ I would fain spare them, if pos- 
sible. Let nothing but the most urgent neces- 
sity induce us to use violence. Onalaska, you 
are a brave man, and can appreciate the feeling 
that impels me to spare a fellow countryman.” 

“*T can,” replied Red-Shoe, ‘and I will re- 
spect your wish. But if the safety of the 
White Rover required it, I would slay the great 
chief himself. Ay, the knife should find its way 
to his heart as easily as it passes into its sheath ”’ 

‘Is my white friend ready ?”’ he asked, after 
a pause. 

** He is ready; lead on, chieftain, and Pierre 
Moran will follow if it be to death.” 

**Good,”’ said Red-Shoe, and the next in- 
stant he was moving towards the settlement like 
a phantom of darkness. Following the general 
direction of what is now the Bayou road, they 
gradually approached St. Ann street, which 
was to be the scene of their operations. 

With cautious and noiseless footsteps they 
passed many cabins whose inmates were sleep- 


ing. Once, soon after entering the town, a dog 


came forth and barked furiously, but fortunate- 
ly the thunder, which now reverberated through 
the skies, either stifled his vociferation, or the 
elementary disturbance was referred to as the 
eause of his outcnies, if they were heard by the 
towns-people. Pausing until he had wearied 


49 


chief and Moran glided on toward the prison. 
The darkness was now intense, relieved only by 
occasional gleams of lightning. , 
Red-Shoe paused when he reached St. Ann 
street. They stood near the structure contain- 
ing the object of their solicitude. The build- 
ing used as a prison at that period did not 
much resemble those bold and frowning edifices 
which are now to be seen fronting Orleans and 
St. Ann streets. It was a low, stone building, 
containing but few compartments. The cells 
for criminals were in the basement, and those 
for debtors above, together with a small suite of 
rooms for the turnkey. The edifice was sur- 
rounded by a fence about five feet high, of 
stakes or piles, driven into the earth, the pro- 


jecting ends sharpened to a point to prevent it 


from being scaled. 

Outside of this yard or court, since the arrest 
of Henri, two sentinels had been placed, who 
were relieved from duty once in three hours. 
This additional precaution seemed to be war- 
ranted on account of the graveness of the of- 
fence, and the peculiar circumstances of the 
case ; for it was verily believed that the escape 
of the prisoner would be followed by the most 
serious consequences, possessing, as he evidently 
did, such unbounded influence over the Indians. 

Like others imprisoned for capital offences, 
he had been placed in one of the basement cells, 
in that portion of the prison fronting upon Or- 
leans street. 

The plan which Red-Shoe and Pierre Moran 
intended to pursue, was to surprise the sen- 
tinels upon their post, secure them, awe them 
into silence, enter the prison, awaken the turn- 
key from his slumbers, corrupt him to lead the 
way to the prisoner’s cell, free him from his 
irons, and then depart as quickly as possible, 
secking safety in the boundless forests of the 
Mississippi Valley. 

The moment of action had now come—a mo- 
ment requiring all the habitual cunning, cool- 
ness and courage of the Indian and the back- 
woodsman. ‘They stood within a few yards of 
the prison ; but no sounds were heard indicat- 


himself with his efforts to attract attention, the |ing that the sentinels were on duty. They 


50 


waited paitently until the next flash of lightning 
should reveal the outlines of the prison and the 
surrounding palisade. The rain poured down 
in torrents. A heavy burst of thunder made 
the ground shake beneath them. The terrible 
explosion was instantly followed by a red glare 
of electric flame, revealing every object near 
them with fearful distinctness, and in that lurid 
and montentary gleam, a portion of the person 
of a sentinel was seen standing, statue- like, in 
the sentry box. Awed by the din of the 
warring elements, he had ceased to walk his 
rounds ; and his musket was resting against the 
wall beside. 

Passing the other side of the prison, the 
second sentinel was found in the same condition, 
though apparently somewhat more comatose, 
for it was the last part of the watch. 

‘‘ Now,” said Pierre Moran to Red-Shoe, in 
a whisper, ‘‘ you secure one, and I will the other, 
and do not shed blood if you can help it.” 

‘*It is good,”’ replied the chief, ‘‘ and we will 
see who shall effect his object with the utmost 
silence and despatch.” 

With these words Red-Shoe glided back to 
that side of the building looking towards Or- 
leans street, Where the first sentinel was posted, 
while Moran was left to deal with the other who 
did duty on St. Ann street. 

The hunter divested himself of his hunting 
frock, and wrapping it about the breech of his 
rifle (which he had hitherto kept dry beneath 
it), laid both carefully upon the ground in the 
most sheltered spot he could conveniently find. 
His preparations were made with all requisite 
caution, and when the deafening thunder warned 
him that the lightning was about to illumine the 
heavens, he remained motionless until the 
bright and blinding glare no longer rendered 

surrounding objects visible. Pierre Moran 
with afew quick and noiseless steps reached 
the palisade, and stood within a few paces of 
‘ the sentry box, which he did not wish to ap- 
proach directly in front, but in a lateral direc- 
tion, a proceeding which would greatly lessen 
the chances of discovery. 


With stealthy step he moved on. His bold 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


heart beat with unwonted quickness when he 
found himself standing but asingle pace from 
the narrow building containing the unconscious 
soldier. With a rapid and decided movement 
he threw himself forward, and quick as thought 
his powerful hand lay upon the sentinel’s shoul- 
der. At the very instant of doing so, a tremen- 
dous peal of thunder broke with violence over 
their heads, and almost simultaneously with the 
deafening explosion, a sheet of flame blazed 
athwart the heavens, and revealed to the aston- 
ished sentinel the stern and threatening face of 
Pierre Moran, and the blade of the suspended 
weapon. He madea convulsive effort to wrench 
the bayonet from his musket, but the tightening 
grasp and deep tones of the hunter struck ter- 
ror to his already trembling heart and fear- 
palsied arm. 

‘* Yield—be silent, and you are safe—resist, 
and you die !’’ exclaimed Moran. 

Full of consternation, and astounded by the 
sudden and unexpected onset, the soldier was 
unable to speak, and stood quaking in the ner- 
vous grasp of the hunter. 

‘‘ Do you hear and comprehend, man ?”’ 
added the latter, shaking him, in order to re- 
store in some measure his scattered senses. 

‘‘Gather up your faculties and do as I bid, 
and no personal violence shall be offered you.”’ 

By this time the sentinel began to under- 
stand his situation and what was required of 
him, and suffered his hands to be bound with- 
outa murmur. Pierre then emptied the prim- 
ing from his musket, took off the bayonet, thrust 
it into his belt, and taking his prisoner by the 
shoulder, led him passively into Orleans street. 
Pierre was not suffered to remain long in igno- 
rance of the fate of his comrade. He de- 
scried the dim outlines of two human figures, 
which proved’ to be Red-Shoe and the other 
sentinel, who had been secured in the same 
manner and at the same time. 

‘‘T have not forgotten your wish,” said Ona- 
laska ; ‘* no blood has been shed.” 

‘‘T feel that it is best thus,?? replied Pierre,’ 
and then added immediately, turning to the two 
prisoners, ‘‘ our object is to release Henri Del- 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


croix, now under the sentence of death. Do 
as we shall direct you, and you need be under 
no apprehensions, and shall suffer no bodily 
harm. To resist, you perceive, would be mad- 
ness, and would result in no good to you what- 
ever. Now lead the way to the prisoner.”’ 

The firm though suppressed tones of Moran, 
the presence of the tall Indian, whose grim and 
threatening visage was often revealed by ‘con- 
stantly recurring flashes of lightning, all had 
their due effect upon the soldiers. Without a 
word they moved sullenly toward the prison. 
They paused at the gate of the prison yard. 

‘* How shall this gate be opened?’ asked 
Moran, in a whisper, of the soldiers. There 
was no reply. Red-Shoe laid his hand sud- 
denly upon his tomahawk, and drew it from 
his belt. The moVement did not escape the at- 
tention of the prisoners. An expression of fear 
passed over their faces, and with a shudder they 
drew nearer the hunter. 

‘* Produce the key if you have it,’’ added 
_ the latter, hurriedly. ‘‘ There is no time to lose. 
Do not hesitate, as you value your lives.”’ 

By a singular piece of good fortune, the key 
to the gate was really in possession of one of 
the sentinels. In a moment it was in the lock, 
and they passed into the court. The party 
now stood on the stone steps of the prison. 

‘* Ring the turnkey’s bell furiously,’”’ added 
Pierre, to one of the soldiers; ‘‘ when he asks 
who rings, and what is wanted, tell him your 
name, and that you come with another prisoner 
by order of the governor. Your safety depends 
upon the manner in which you perform this 
service. If you use any artifice, if your voice 
shakes or betrays any @pxiety, if you speak not 
promptly, I will not answer for the consequen- 
ces.’’ And Moran looked significantly at Red- 
Shoe. 

The soldier to whom the hunter had address- 
ed himself, put forth his hand and rang the turn- 
key’s bell violently, nor discontinued his efforts 
until his voice was heard demanding the mean- 
ing of such peremptory summons, 

“Tt is I, Corporal Rion. The governor has 
made an important arrest, and the prisoner is 


51 


now at the door. Hurry yourself, my good 
fellow, for it rains as it never rained before, and 
I am wet to the skin !” 

‘* Excellent !’? whispered the hunter. ‘‘ You 
have done yourself credit... You shall lose noth 
ing by it.” - 

Very soon the steps of the turnkey were heard 
approaching. The features of Red-Shoe and 
Pierre Moran lighted up with satisfaction.— 
The key grated in the lock and the door swung 
open. 

‘* Step in quick,”’ said Pierre, and he pushed 
the soldiers forward over the threshold, and 
speedily followed them. 

‘‘ Here are two prisoners,”’ said the turnkey. 

‘* Yes,”’ said Moran, promptly, ‘‘ and you to 
the number, makes three.’”’ As the hunter 
uttered these words, he laid his hand upon 
the jailor’s arm, and Red-Shoe closed the door. 

‘* You’re quite a joker,’’ said the turnkey, 
with a Jaugh. 

‘‘ There is no joke about it, my fine fellow,” 
replied Pierre. ‘‘ Look at these men a little 
closer. You perceive that they are soldiers— 
the very ones posted at your doors as sentinels. 
To be brief, we have come to set Henri Delcroix 
at liberty. Lead the way fo his cell without a 
moment’s delay.”’ 

The jailor recoiled in unspeakable amazement. 
He looked first at one, and then at the other, and 
his face grew ashy pale, as his eyes rested upon 
the Indian chief, who, standing erect and haugh- 
ty, impatiently motioned him onward with his 
hand. 

‘* Gentlemen,”’ said the trembling functionary, 
in a faltering voice, ‘‘I should be pleased to see 
your authority.” 

Pierre Moran touched the handle of his knife, 
and the proud chieftain made a significant mo- 
tion towards his hatchet. 

The jailor hesitated no longer. Overwhelm- 
ed with fears in regard to his own safety, he led 
the way towards the cell of the condemned as 
fast as his limbs could carry him. Urging the 
soldiers along before them, Onalaska and the 
hunter followed. There was a little indecision 
in the movements of the keeper when he reach- 


UNIVERSITY OF 
ILLINOIS LIBRA 


52 


ed the door of the prisoner’s cell, but a fierce 
gesture, and a threatening scowl from the chief- 
tain quickened his motions’ and banished his 
irresolution. 

He applied the key and threw open the door 
with as much alacrity as his trepidation would 
permit. Henri was awakened from his uneasy 
slumbers by the creaking of the hinges and the 
sound of footsteps. He started from his recum- 
bent position, and cast his eyes with an inquir- 
ing expression toward the door. His vision 
rested upon Onalaska and Pierre Moran, and a 
gleam of gladness and surprise passed over his 
pale. visage. 

‘* What do I see?’ he exclaimed, arising to 
his feet, and stretching forth his manacled hands. 

‘‘The White Rover sees his red brother and 
another friend,”’ replied Red-Shoe, calmly. 

‘* And how and why have you come ??’ con- 
tinued Henri, with increasing wonder. 

‘* We have come,”’ said Moran, ‘‘to set you 
at liberty. Jailor, knock off those disgraceful 
irons. They were never forged for the wrists 
of a man of honor.” 

‘*T understand all,’’ returned Henri, glanc- 
ing at the two soldiers, bound and powerless. 
‘* You have risked your lives to save mine. I 
thank you from the profoundest depths of my 
heart ; but I have committed no crime worthy 
of death, and I cannot fly like a criminal to save 
my life.” 

‘““ Nay, Henri Deleroix, you must not fall a 
victim to so nice a sense of honor,” replied the 
‘‘We have considered all. 
We know that there is but one chance for you 
to vindicate your innocence, and re-establish 
your good name, and that one chance is in 
flight.”’ 

‘“‘T am resolved not to fly from my fate,”’ re- 
turned Henri, firmly. 

‘* Would you die, young man, with such a 
burden of guilt upon your shoulders? Who will 
take the trouble to establish your innocence after 
you have suffered the doom of a felon? Who 
will believe you innocent when the law has pro- 
nounced you guilty, and the sword of justice has 
sealed the decision with blood. I ask and wait 


hunter, earnestly. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


in vain for a response ; none is given, nor can 
be. The world will speak and think of you as 
a traitor. But if you escape, and thus gain 
time, your innocence can be fully and completely 
proved.”’ 

‘« Pierre Moran, you argue well perhaps just- 
ly ; you shake my resolution,” replied Henri, 
much wrought upon. 

‘¢ And there is yet another object that requires 
your thoughts—Helen Lerowe. Will she not 
weep when you are no more? Will she not 
cease to be happy when you cease to live ?” 

‘« Mon Dieu! you move me!” said Henri, 
with a sigh. | 

‘‘ And think of the frantic grief of Father 
Davion,”’ added Pierre. 

‘And of the sorrow of the Soft-Voice,” 
Red-Shoe. 

Henri held forth his hands and the faa 
knocked off his irons. 

‘‘ You have conquered,” he said, in a voice 
rendered unsteady by emotion. ‘‘ Do with me 


said 


as you will.” 

“Good,” said Onalaska. ‘The friend of 
the red man shall be saved. ‘The White Rover 
shall be seen again in the forest, and his rifle 
shall be heard upon its rivers and lakes.” 

The chief took the lamp from the hand of the 
turnkey and passed out, together with Henri 
and Moran. The two soldiers and the jailor 
were left in the cell. Pierre turned the key 
upon them, and the three were prisoners. 

With rapid steps they hurried from the 
prison, locking the door after them, and the 
gate of the court precisely as they had found 
them. The violence of the storm had passed. 
The rain was still falling, but less plentifully. 
The thunder was heard with fainter vehemence, 
muttering afar off in the distance ; the light- 
ning flashed at more lengthened intervals, and 
with diminished brightness. 

Red-Shoe and Pierre Moran caught their rifles 
from the ground, and in a few moments they 
and the White Rover were lost in the depths of 


the forest, where they could safely laugh at the 


false claims of justice, and the weakness of prison 
bars. 


CHAPTER XI. 


A DISSEMBLER’S AVOWAL OF LOVE. 


Tu» morning succeeding the escape of Henri 
dawned clear and bright. The only traces of 
the late storm were found in the wet grass and 
pools of water standing by the wayside. Since 
the condemnation of her lover, the heart of Hel- 
en Lerowe had known no respite from sorrow ; 
but being firm in the opinion that he was inno- 
cent, and that by some means he would be saved, 
she had struggled hard to temper down the vio- 
lence of her grief to a calm and unconcerned de- 
meanor ; but this she found hard to do, and so 
she let the storm of her first real grief pass in 
ithe silence and solitude of her own chamber. 
Feeling at length that the sympathy of one true 
heart would indeed be precious, she resolved to 
visit Adelaide Ridelle, and seek a momentary 
relief in the companionship of a nature so purely 
feminine and so gentle. 

Hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, she 
- silently left the mansion of her guardian and 
took the way to St. Charles street. Her cha- 
grin cannot well be described, when after walk- 
ing a few yards she was joined by Captain Le- 
sage. Helen’s aversion for the man had in- 


4 


creased until it had grown to an absolute hor- 
ror of his presence Scarcely deigning to no- 
tice him she hurrried forward. | 

‘‘ You are abroad early, Mademoiselle Le- 
rowe,”’ he said, with much suavity. ‘‘ But you 
are doubtless desirous of breathing the air pu- 
rified by the shower of last night.” 

“You are right, captain, and I desire to 
breathe it alone,” replied Helen with dignity. 

Lesage bit his lips, and was rather confused 
by this home thrust. 

‘Nay, fair maiden, such a thought were 
selfish.» The air of heaven is designed for all 
to respire, and to me it is rendered purer and 
sweeter by the presence of Helen Lerowe.”’ 

‘* Captain Lesage, such words from some men 
would please me; but when spoken by others 
they offend,’’ returned Helen. 

‘“‘You are hard with me, Mademoiselle Le- 
rowe; and I can perhaps conjecture why it is 
so,” rejoined Lesage. ‘‘If in the disharge of 
my duty, I have been forced to witness against 
one whom Iam informed you knew and es- 
teemed in childhood, I am rather to be pi- 


54 


tied than condemned. I do assure you, mad- 
emoiselle, that I have suffered nota little on ac- 
count of this misguided young man.” 

Here the captain paused and evinced much 
emotion. 

‘“‘Gladly would I have saved him; and I 
have spent an hour with the governor in earnest 
treaty that his life might be spared, but alas ! 
his excellency is inexorable. He admired my 
generosity, but grew angry at my pertinacity. 
You can never know the agony I suffered when 
I stood up to testify against Delcroix. And 
why did I suffer? Because I knew that he 
was esteemed by Helen Lerowe. Believe me, 
if there is aught I can do to mitigate the fate of 
All 
the return I ask is, that I may be placed in the 
list of your friends—thought of with kindness, 
and ultimately with pleasure. Am I overween- 
Do Task too much? Do 
I overstep the bounds of decorum ?”’ 

As Lesage went on, his voice grew soft, sub- 
dued, and humbly respectful. 

«Ts it possible that I have judged this man 
wrongfully ?” thought Helen. 

‘* Mademoiselle Lerowe,’’ resumed the cap- 


this young man, it shall be gladly done. 


ing, mademoiselle ? 


tain, ‘‘ I beg of you when this unhappy tragedy 
has been enacted to the end, and the grave has 
closed over that misguided youth, whose thought- 
Jessness has well nigh baptized this colony in 
blood, to think less harshly of one who would 
willingly have spared the offender at the risk of 
everything, in order to save you a single tear, 
or a sigh of sorrow. Were it not for this un- 
happy affair, I would even now venture to re- 
port the story of my unrequited love. But I 
may not tell the tale. My motives would be 
doubted, my actions misconstrued, and my in- 
tegrity called in question. But were Henri 
Delcroix at large, and unsuspected of crime, ‘I 
would upon bended knee tell you such a story 
of unchanging, fathomless love as living woman 
never heard. The history of my passion must 
remain untold, I can only think of your su- 
pernal beauty, and dream of your angelic good- 
ness ; all I may ask is your pity, a small boon 
for Helen Lerowe to accord toa hopeless man.” 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


With low and solemn earnestness of tone, the 
consummate dissembler breathed forth these 
honeyed words. 

‘* Captain Lesage,”’ replied Helen, seriously, 
‘‘ your presence is not agreeable tome. I know 
not well why it is, but your words are to me 
like the hissing of a serpent. My soul turns in- 
stinctively from you with loathing and fear. 
Your looks are sorrowful, and your speech sub- 
dued and grief-like, but you fail to touch my 
heart. It seems to me (God knows whom I 
wrong and whom I do not) that when the sacri- 
fice of my foster brother shall have been con- 
summated, the Judge of all human hearts will 
require his blood at your hands. Go, Captain 
Lesage, and when you have made your peace 
with Heaven, will be the proper time to speak 
of earthly matters. My spirit is too sorrowful - 
now to brook patiently the presence of the man 
who has been an active agent in the conviction 
of my foster brother. I wish you a good morn- 
ing.”’ | 

‘‘To your sorrow, then,’ replied ‘Lesage, 
bowing deferentially, ‘* will I attribute your 
unkindness to one who would sell his best blood 
to save you, and think the sacrifice a pleasure. 
Heaven sustain and keep you, mademoiselle.”’ 

With another bow, humbly respectful, sad, 
apparently and grieved, the captain left Helen 
to pursue her way to the St. Charles. 

‘“Be of good courage,” said Madame Ri- 
delle, as our heroine entered the house. ‘‘ I 
feel within me a good assurance that an all-wise 
Providence will yet interpose to prevent this 
sacrifice. ‘* Weep not, faint not, despair not, 
cease not to trust in Him who dispenses life 
and death, punishes the guilty and rewards the 
righteous.” 

‘“T will struggle hard to do so,” replied 
Helen, weeping. ‘Do not reproach me, ‘nor 
deem it unmaidenly to shed a few tears for the 
fate of my foster-brother—one so good, so loyal, 
and yet so basely maligned.” 

‘« My poor child,” said a gentle voice, which 
proved ‘to be that of Madame Mablois, to whom 
the reader’s attention has before been called. 
“Let the noble consciousness that Henri’ Del- 


, 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


eroix is innocent, impart fortitude to your soul, 
and uphold your sinking spirit.”’ 

Helen turned towards the speaker with an ex- 
pression of the liveliest satisfaction. 

‘« Are you here, good mother ?’’ she exclaim- 
ed, embracing her warmly. ‘‘ Il am indeed glad 
to see you in this hour of sorrow. Appropri- 
ately have the red men of the forest named you 
Soft-Voice. When you speak so gently and 
hopefully of Henri, your tones are indeed musi- 
eal and soft.” 

‘“«There are,”’ said Mablois, in a suppressed 
yet earnest voice, ‘‘ active agents at work for 
the liberation of Henri, and they will succeed at 
whatever hazard. Even now,”’ she added, pro- 
phetically, ‘‘he may be at liberty.” 

‘Speak on, Madame Mablois. Your words 
fall like healing dews upon my heart!’’ cried 
Helen. And then she added in a more serious 
tone, ‘‘ Yet it is not well to foster false hopes ; 
it would but entail more bitter woe at last.’’ 

‘*Pierre Moran,’”’ said Adelaide, appearing 
at that moment, ‘‘ knows much; he assures me 
of the wickedness of Lesage.”’ 

** And Pierre Moran speaks the truth,” ad- 
ded Mablois. 

‘He told me upon the night on which the 
warrant was issued for his arrest,’’ continued 
Adelaide, with a blush, ‘‘ that the captain had 
laid more than one plan for the destruction of 
Deleroix.”’ | 

« And the truth of the case is that Pierre is 
too deeply in the captain’s confidence to be 
safe,’’ added Madame Ridelle. ‘‘It was on 
this account that Lesage thought it best to have 
him imprisoned so that he could not testify at 
the trial of Henri.”’ 

“I perceive that you do not yet know all,” 
said Madame Mablois. ‘‘ The captain has em- 
ployed an agent to rid himself of Pierre Moran 
also.”’ ; 

The cheeks of Adelaide grew pale. 

‘Fear not,’’ continued Mablois, ‘‘ he has 
failed in this, and the very agency he has em- 
_ ployed threatens to prove fatal to himself, ulti- 
mately.” . 

“Jt is thus that our Heavenly Father pun- 


55 


ishes the: wicked !’’ exclaimed Madame Ridelle, 
piously. ‘* The evil they propose for others not 
unfrequently falls upon their own heads.” 

After some further conversation of a similar 
nature, Helen returned home more hopeful, and 
stronger in the faith that something would trans- 
pire to avert the doom of Henri. 

As she passed toward her chamber, she ob- 
served that De Bienville, her guardian, was in 
the parlor and alone. She resolved to speak 
with him upon the subject uppermost in her 
thoughts. Laying aside her walking apparel, 
without delay she returned and entered the 
apartment. 

The governor was pacing to and fro, absorbed 
in thought. He paused and seemed somewhat 
embarrassed when his fair ward made her ap- 
pearance. He fixed his penetrating eyes full 
upon her, but, to employ the words of another, 
‘‘more in sorrow than in anger.”’ 

‘‘ Methinks you look pale to-day, Helen,”’ he 
said, slowly. : 

‘* And is there not a sufficient cause 
plied Helen, with averted gaze. 

‘* What mean you?’ asked De Bienville, 
quickly. 

‘«Ts not my foster-brother doomed to death ?”’ 
returned his ward. — 

‘“‘ Call him not by the endearing name of 
brother,’’? rejoined De Bienville, somewhat 
sternly. ‘‘ He has forfeited all claims to your 
sympathy.” 

‘« My dear guardian! my good, kind friend, 
do not say so!’’ exclaimed Helen, earnestly. 
‘‘ He is not guilty of the crime for which he has 
been unjustly condemned.” 

‘‘ Do you accuse me of injustice, Helen?” 
said the governor, sadly. 

‘‘Pardon me, my best and most generous 
friend and benefactor ; but if your conscience 
has not already told you that you have acted 
with too much precipitancy, far be it from the 
child of your bounty to be your accuser,’ an- 
swered Helen. 

‘“« You take an ingenious way to accuse, Hel- 

” rejoined De Bienville, mildly. ‘I have 


en, 
no malice against that young man. I have 


?? re- 


56 THE WHITE ROVER. 


done—with extreme reluctance—what I have| ‘‘ Then I will continue to weep!” cried Hel- 
thought my duty. I grant that he appears tru- | en. | 

ly noble and innocent ; but facts are fearfully} ‘‘ Nay, my gil, arise. I will investigate 
against him. I would that there had been this matter more deeply; for I tell you in con- 
some pretext for sparing him, for he impressed | fidence I wish to save this man. He interests 
us all in his favor. But the plot was truly aj} me in spite of myself. You should have seen 
horrible one.”’ him when on trial. How his noble figure dila- 

‘Tt fills my heart with pleasure to hear you! ted with the conscious pride of manly strength 
speak thus in favor of the unhappy Henri. | to bear the worst! what indomitable energy of 
Listen still further to the dictates of your better | spirit flashed in his eyes; with what heroic for- 
judgment, and save him. Believe me,’’ con-|titude and courage he bore his fate. But where 
tinued Helen with increased earnestness, ‘‘ he is|is this Pierre Moran? Can he be found?” 
innocent of the crime charged upon him. Le-} ‘An order was issued for his arrest, and he 
sage has perjured himself. He has before at-| fled for safety to the forest.” 
tempted the life of Henri; but fortunately he ‘« Ah, yes, I remember about the warrant.” 
failed.”’ ‘* Tt was a part of the plot of Lesage that he — 

‘Can you prove what you affirm ?”’ asked the | should not testify at the a of rps’ added 
governor, eagerly. Helen. 

‘“‘T could if Pierre Moran could be found,”| ‘‘ And why not?” asked the governor. 
answered Helen, quickly. ‘For the very good reason, as I have just 

‘‘ Pierre Moran !’’ said De Bienville thought-| learned, that Captain Lesage had offered him 
fully. ‘‘ I know him; a dark, sinister-looking | two hundred pounds to take the life of Henri.”’ 
man, but possessed of a fearless heart, and 1 be-} ‘‘ Helen, are you sure there is no mistake 
lieve him honorable. I must sift this matter to| about this?’’ asked De Bienville, with solemn 
the bottom. But it is difficult to believe, for a} earnestness. 
moment, that a man so smoothly spoken, and ap-| ‘I feel very sure that I have not been mis- 
parently so candid and forgiving withal, can be| informed. And this is not all; I heard that he 
guilty of what you accuse him. If it should| is even now plotting with some of your enemies 
prove so, woe be to me.”’ to have you recalled to France.” 

De Bienville spoke the last few words inthat| ‘‘ My dear Helen, you astonish me beyond 
firm and deep toned voice which characterized | expression. I must attend to this. I feel that 

-him in moments of excitement, and indicated a| you are not altogether wrong,’’ rejoined the 
fixed and unchanging purpose. governor, hurriedly, and considerably excited. 

Helen sank upon her knees, held the govern-| Helen kissed the governor’s hand, and arose 
or’s hands in her white and trembling fingers, | from her knees with her face glowing with new 
and shed grateful tears upon them. hope. 

‘‘ What is this young man to you?’’ asked! De Bienville gently put back the dark mass- 
De Bienville, sorrowfully. es of her dishevelled hair, gazed earnestly and 

“Tf you have fathomed my secret, be still] tenderly into her face, and then bending for- 
generous, my benefactor,” replied Helen.| ward, gravely kissed her fair brow. 

““Deem me not unmaidenly. Deal nos too} Helen inclined her head and received the sa- 
sternly with your poor girl.”’ lute gracefully. 

‘“‘God forbid, Helen, that I should deal} ‘‘ Go, my child, and by the help of Heaven, 
sternly with you,” returned De Bienville, with | I will do my duty by you,” he said in an agi- 
emotion. ‘‘Itis notin my heart. Icould not| tated voice. ‘‘I know not why my heart turns 
be stern with you if I would. Cease to weep, | toward you with an affection so pure, so deep 
child ; your tears move me.” and fatherly, but I know it is thus.” 


THE WHITE ROVER. 57 


While the governor was speaking, a messen- 
ger rushed into the apartment with breathless 
haste, dispensing with all the forms of etiquette. 

‘“‘T come to inform your excellency,’’ he cried 
in hot haste, ‘‘ that Henri Delcroix has escaped. 
The two sentinels, and the jailor, were found 
this morning locked into the cell which he had 
occupied. Captain Lesage is almost frantic 
with fury, and has despatched men in every di- 
rection to find the prisoner ; but everybody that 
has heard of the escape says it will be of no use, 
because long before this time he is in the depths 
of the forest, and surrounded by a thousand 
warriors.”’ 

With a cry-of joy Helen sank fainting upon 
the floor. 

‘“‘] thank you for your promptness in bring- 
ing me the important news,” said the governor. 
‘“«T will attend to it.” 

Waving his hand for the messenger to go, 
De Bienville raised his ward in his arms and 
placed her in an easy chair, and in a few mo- 
ments she recovered. 

‘* Hscaped !’’ she cried, with a smile of joy. 
‘Escaped! gone! safe! Heaven be praised !”’ 

‘One thing you have forgotten,’’ said the 
governor. ‘‘ His escape and flight proves his 
guilt.” 

‘‘ By no means. It seems to me the only 
way to establish his innocence ; for no man can 
prove his own innocence after his death,” re- 
turned Helen. | 

‘« A very ingenious argument,’’ answered De 
Bienville, with a smile. And then he added 
immediately in a low voice, ‘‘ Were it not trea- 
son to my king and country, I would say—on 
your account—I am not sorry that he has thus 
escaped.”’ 

«« Rver kind, ever indulgent, ever generous,” 
replied Helen. ‘‘ You overwhelm me with 
‘goodness, you fill me with admiration.” 

Saying these words our heroine retired to her 
chamber, with her heart lightened of its burden 
of sorrow. Providence had indeed interposed 
its saving hand to shield the innocent. 

'. The light step of Helen had scarcely ceased 


men to Natchez. 


the princess, La Gloriease, swept unannounced 
into the apartment. Unabashed and self-pos- 
sessed, she paused before the governor. ~ 

‘‘ Great chief,”’ she said, calmly and distinet-. 
ly, and in good French, ‘‘I have come to bring 
this speaking bark from the White Rover.”’ 

‘* Be seated, daughter of the Sun,” said De 
Bienville, courteously recovering from his sur- 
prise at the unexpected appearance of the prin- 
cess. ‘* Be seated, while I talk with the ‘ speak- 
ing bark.’ ”’ 

‘‘ The governor unrolled the scroll of bark 
which La Glorieuse had given him, and read as 
follows : 

‘“‘ GovERNOR DE BiEnviLte : 

‘* Though doomed to a felon’s death, and 
forced to fly from my own people for safety, I 
have not yet learned to be the enemy of the 
French. But could I so far forget myself as to 
harbor a traitor’s thoughts, at the expiration of 
a single week I could appear before New Or- 
leans at the head of three thousand warriors. 
Such is not my purpose, for I would not forego 
the claims of humanity for the sake of punishing 
a single encmy, though an enemy who has well 
nigh effected my ruin. 

‘IT do not reproach your excellency for the 
part you have taken in my disgrace. I can 
read human nature well enough to know that 
you acted conscientiously, and according to the 
dictates of your best judgment, and I even read 
sympathy for me in your earnest eyes. I for- 
give you freely, and with real sincerity, though 
deeply regretting that a lofty and honorable 
mind should be deceived by a perjured villain. 
My conscience, Governor de Bienyille, almost 
accuses me of injustice to the friendly though 
savage people whom I am among, for what I am 
about to tell you ; but his is a hard and cruel 
heart indeed who would not sacrifice something 
to save his countrymen from destruction. 

‘* Allow me to respectfully urge upon you the 
propriety, the necessity even, of sending more 
That part of the French col- 
ony will soon have need of brave and determin- 
ed defenders. Let the slaves be well watched, 


to be heard, when the tall and majestic figure ui'| for you have much to fear from them. There is 


58 


one among them called Samlea—a man of much 
resolution and courage—who is a leading spirit 
in the insurrectionary movement. You will 
perhaps form some idea of how much you have 
to fear, when I inform you that Red-Shoe, the 
celebrated Chickasaw chief, is at the head of the 
hostile demonstration on the part of the Indian 
tribes. The object of this alliance and conspi- 
racy, of which I am accused of being the prime 
mover, is the total extinction of the French col- 
ony, as has already been represented to you 
by Lesage, who by some means really obtained 
information concerning the projected move- 
ment. 


‘‘ But even Lesage has no idea of the real 
danger which now menaces the French. Much 
of that which he has made cath to, was mere 
matter of guess-work with him; and the peril is 
ten, yea, an hundred times more imminent than 
- he imagines. I am doing all in my power to 
avert this cloud of destruction hovering over 
Louisiana. Heaven knows how earnestly I 
hope that my efforts may be crowned with suc- 
cess. 


‘‘Sorvidal is stationed among the Chicka- 
saws, ostensibly as an agent, but really as aspy. 
He had better be recalled. The Indians have 
fathomed his purpose, and he is not safe a single 
hour. [I shall advise him to leave when I see 
him. He can effect nothing by staying among 
them, for they are too shrewd to admit him to 
their councils or confidence. If the destruction 
of the colony can be averted in no other way, I 
shall endeavor to produce hostilities between the 
Chickasaws and Choctaws, and thus turn the 
tide of battle in that direction. If it be true 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


that you have a secret and ever active agent or 
spy, who is unceasingly hovering with silence 
and secrecy among the various Indian tribes, he» 
will assure you that I have spoken truly, and 
advised you for the best, as time will prove. 

‘‘ If the tongue of rumor speaks not falsely, 
there is one in your employ whose mysterious 
movements, whose flittings from place to place, 
almost entitles him to the faculty of ubiquity. 
Seek his counsel, and learn whether Henri Del- 
croix isa friend to his people. JI send this 
‘speaking bark’ by the hand of one whom you 
know, the proud daughter of the Sun, who is 
my friend, and a friend of peace. Begging as 
a favor that you will assure your ward—my fos- 
ter-sister—that I am in safety, I remain your 
humble servant, Henri Detcrorx.”’ 


The surprise of De Bienyille upon the perusal 
of this missive was extreme. If he had previ- 
ously felt any misgivings in regard to the hon- 
esty of Lesage, they were now increased, while 
his interest in Henri grew in proportion as his 
doubts of the captain’s honesty increased. 

‘* Daughter of the Sun,”’ said De Bienville, 
turning to the princess, ‘‘do the Natchez desire 
peace, or are they preparing for war?” 

‘“« My people love peace, if it. can be had on 
honorable terms,”’ replied La Glorieuse. 

‘“‘They shall have them,’’ answered the goy- 
ernor. ‘‘ You may tell the Great Sun that the 
French chief will dothem justice. If they have 
been wronged they shall be righted. Since I 
have exercised authority in the colony I have 
been friendly to the Natchez.” 

‘‘ The words of the wise chief shall be repeat- 
ed to the Great Sun,” replied the princess. 


CHAPTER. XM. 


THE PLOT—THE ABDUCTION. 


Wiru the reader’s permission we shall now 
return to Lesage. After leaving Helen Lerowe, 
he was joined by a man about thirty-five years 
of age, well proportioned, and of good address. 
It was Monsieur Hubert, the king’s commissary 
—a person appointed by his majesty to observe 
the conduct of all the colonial. officers and re- 
port the ‘same. 

This was not an enviable office, but it ac- 
corded well with the disposition of Hubert, who 
was aman of no principle, ever plotting and 
designing, knowing no higher ambition than 
the gratification of self. He cared not who 
sank or who swam, so long as he floated safely 
upon the tide. The conversation which passed 
between the commissary and Captain Lesage, 
will give thé reader a better idea of his true 
character than aught we could describe. 

** Well, captain,” he exclaimed, with a free 
and easy air, ‘“‘ how speeds your wooing ?”’ 

‘‘ But indifferently ; and in fact I may as 
well say it speeds not atall,”’ replied Lesag:. 

‘“‘She is still obstinate then,” replied the 
commissary. 


“Ay, more wilful than ever. I am con- 
vinced that I can never woo her by fair and 
gentle means,’’ answered Lesage, impatiently. 

‘«Then you must resort to more summary 
proceedings, mon cher amte,’’ rejoined Hubert. 

‘« Quite true, Hubert ; but how do you pros- 
per in wooing ?”’ said Lesage. 

‘* No better than yourself, and possibly not 
so well. Why, would you believe it, she scorn- 
ed me with the air of a princess,’’ rejoined the 
king’s commissary. 

‘A spirited girl is Mademoiselle Adelaide,”’ 
answered the captain, with a smile; for he 
was secretly rejoiced that his companion in 
wickedness had succeeded no better than him- 
self. 

‘* Spirited enough, I admit ; but she’s a splen- 
did girl, Lesage. A defeat would mortify me 
not alittle. The pride of Mademoiselle Ridelle 
must by some means be humbled. My good 
captain, let us devise some effectual means for 
the speedy accomplishment of our mutual 
wishes,’ added the commissary. 

«Tt is done!’ exclaimed Lesage, promptly. 


60 


‘«T have plotted too deeply, and risked too much 
already to be baffled at last. M. Hubert, what 
do you propose ?”’ 

‘That we abduct both these young ladies,”’ 
‘replied the commissary, with energy. 

‘“‘T have thought of the same, and it is fea- 
sible. By what agencies shall we effect our 
purpose? Have you resolved upon any plan ?” 
said the captain, anxiously. 

‘‘T have thought of several schemes, but 
the more intricate part of the plotting I shall 
entrust to you,”’ answered Hubert, with a light 
laugh. 

““Of course we must not-be known in the 
matter ourselves,’’ returned Lesage. 

‘Certainly not. We must employ men less 
scrupulous,”’ retorted the commissary, with a 
significant look. ‘‘I have, you are aware, re- 
cently visited the region of the Sabine river. 
By numerous presents, and as many promises, 
I have made myself quite popular among the 
Camanches, a bold and warlike nation. I have 
thought that they might be made useful in the 
accomplishment of our object.”’ 

‘* Happy circumstance! felicitous thought !” 
exclaimed Lesage, joyfully. ‘If by any 
means Mademoiselles Helen and Adelaide could 
be conveyed to the country of the Camanches 
with secrecy and despatch, what would hinder 
us from following them at our leisure, and en- 
joying the reward of perseverance? Who would 
suspect us of being concerned in the sudden 
disappearance of the mademoiselles! I stand 
high in the esteem of the governor, and you 
are in equal repute with the ministry and the 
king.” | 

‘« T confess,’’ rejomed Hubert, ‘that I can 
think of nothing better. The plan indeed 
seems perfectly practicable. Moreover I am 
daily and hourly expecting a visit from a party 
of Camanches, with whom I am driving a close 
bargain for a tract of land. I will look to it 
that they are put in the best of humor by lib- 
eral presents of beads, pipes, knives, hatchets 
and guns. The king can spare some of his 
treasures, and afford to pay a high premium for 
the friendship of this powerful tribe.” 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘‘But will this deputation enter the town 
openly ?” 

‘No, a trusty messenger will warn me of 
their approach. They willencamp.on the other 
side of the Mississippi.” 

‘* Nothing could be more fortunate. But 
now arises another difficulty to be considered. . 
By what means shall we entice the young girls 
far enough from the town to render their ab- 
duction safe and certain? If by an ingenious 
expedient we could induce them to venture to 
the borders of the town, the rest might be easily 
managed.” 

‘“* Put your wits at work, Lesage,’ 
Hubert. 

‘ If I could imitate the handwriting of Pierre 
Moran, I think it could be arranged to our 
wishes,”’ said the captain. | 

At this juncture Lesage looked up and 
saw Sergeant Dumont approaching with much 
haste. 

‘‘ What has happened now, I wonder ?”’ said 
the commissary. | 

‘“‘ Captain Lesage !’”’ exclaimed Sergeant Du- 
mont, hurriedly, ‘‘the prisoner has escaped.”’ 

“Sacre Dieu!” cried Lesage, turning 
deadly pale. ‘‘ How did it happen? What 
gross carelessness caused such a catastrophe ?”’ 

‘‘He was liberated by some friends who 
came from the forest. One of them was an 
Indian, the other a white man, asI am inform-’ 
ed by the jajlor, whom I found locked into 
the prisoner’s cell, together with the two sen- 
tinels.”’ 

‘“Good heavens! My plans are—” The 
captain checked himself. ‘In the name of 
wonder, Sergeant Dumont, how came the sen- 
tinels in the cell ?”’ 

«They were surprised, captain, during the 
storm of last night, and bound. The rest you 
can readily imagine,”’ returned Dumont. 

‘‘ Send parties of men in every direction, and 
endeavor to recapture the offender,” added Le- 
sage, recovering himself. | 

‘‘But he has gone to the forest, captain, 
most probably, and pursuit will be utterly 
useless.” 


’ returned 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


«‘There is reason in what he affirms,”’ said | 


the commissary. 

‘There is,”’ replied the captain, ‘‘ but never- 
theless, make some efforts to retake him, Du- 
mont.” 

The sergeant touched his cap and withdrew.. 

‘“My plans are defeated, Hubert; ruin 
stares me in the face!’’ exclaimed Lesage.— 
“This Delcroix will not rest until he has 
established his innocence. The governor will 
mistrust me and I shall be cashiered, and per- 


haps worse than that ; for De Bienville is sum- 


mary in his proceedings when thoroughly 
aroused.” 

** Fear nothing from him,” said the commis- 
sary. ‘‘I have written to the ministry as I 
promised you, and De Bienville will be re- 
called, or [am no prophet. If it becomes too 
warm for you here before that time, you can 
absent yourself for a period until the storm 
,blows over.”’ 

‘*T thank you for these drops of comfort, M. 
Hubert. If you can throw around me the eis 
of your protection, I can easily carry out our 
plans in rélation to the Mademoiselles Helen 
and Adelaide, forI can forge the handwriting of 
Henri Deleroix to perfection. I will forge a 
note to Helen Lerowe, requesting her to meet 
her lover in the outskirts of the town, in the 
edge of the forest. Pierve Moran, the lover of 
Adelaide, shall also be-spoken of in the note, 
and the two will go to the place of meeting to- 
gether to enjoy a charming tete-a-tete with their 
chosen swains. What more can be desired than 
this ?”’ 

‘*T pronounce the plot nearly perfect !’’ cried 
the commissary, joyfully. ‘‘ The details of the 
scheme we will arrange at our leisure. In the 
meantime borrow no trouble about De Bienville 
and Henri Deleroix. I flatter myself that I 
have influence enough to protect you. It shall 
be my care to keep you admonished of the 
state of the governor’s feelings ; so make your- 
self easy. After you have written the note, 
show it to me.”’ 

The king’s commissary paused and looked 
eagerly towards the Levee. 


61 


‘« The saints be praised !”’ he exclaimed, joy- 
fully ; ‘‘ for there comes my messenger. The 
deputation of Camanches has arrived. Jortune 
favors us, my dear captain. The mademoiselles 
are ours. Write the tender billet-doux, and I 
will hasten to arrange all with my red friends. 
I will be with you before night.” 

With these words Lesage and the king’s com- 
missary parted. 

If Helen Lerowe had wished for sympathy in 
the hour of her sorrow, before night she as ar- 
dently desired to share her joy with the same 
faithful friends. The sun was low in the heay- 
ens when she walked with light and bounding 
footsteps towards Ridelle’s for the second time. 
The consciousness that Henri was at liberty was 
that which made her happy, and changed the 
whole current of her thoughts and feelings. — 
The immediate peril being past she felt as- 
sured that his innocence would ultimately be 
proved. 

As Helen turned into Bourbon street, a 
stranger came. up from the direction of the 
Levee, who paused and regarded her for a mo- 
ment with much earnestness. He then passed 
her, placing a folded paper in her hand, saying, 
as he did so: . 

‘Tf am not much mistaken, this is for you.”’ 

The stranger walked hastily on. Our 
heroine glanced at the paper and saw her name 
written upon it in the well-known characters of 
Henri. With a blush of pleasure she placed 
the precious document in her bosom and quick- 
ened her pace. When she reached M. Ridelle’s, 
and after the first congratulations, she drew 
the paper from the place where it had been 
so carefully deposited, and read as follows : 

‘* Dearest HELEN : 

‘‘ Before this hour, doubtless, you have 
heard of my escape from prison. Yes, I am 
free, and in the boundless forest again. I can 
again hunt upon the margin of the beautiful 
lakes, and repose on the banks of the running 
rivers. Ican inhale the pure breezes of heaven, 
and listen to the songs of the gleesome birds. 
My blood is no longer chilled by prison damps 
and there are no fetters upon my limbs. 


e 


‘* Would you see me, Helen? Would you 
‘saya gentle word to one doomed to a felon’s 
fate? Would you render lighter the burden of 
wrongs that bear medown? Come, then, to the 
cypress tree where we once met some months 
since; come during the half hour after sunset 
to-night. It is possible that you can prevail on 
Adelaide Ridelle to accompany you, and by so 
doing confer a favor on the gallant Pierre Mo- 
ran, who will be with me. Do not’ deem me 
bold in making this request, for I do not urge 
you to confer so great a pleasure upon me; but 
I should ever be grateful for your condescen- 
sion. The satisfaction of seeing you again 
would banish from my mind the memory of half 
If I donotsee you to-night 
beneath the cypress, I will be at the same spot 
to-morrow night, and please myself with a faint 
hope that you are coming, but that your foot- 
steps linger to try my love. 

‘¢ Dear Helen, I have room to write no more. 
Offering you the best homage of my heart, I 


remain, Yours truly, 


its recent wrongs. 


Henri.”’ 


Mademoiselle Lerowe read this note with a 
pleasure known only to the woman who truly 
loves. She felt the blood mantling her cheeks, 
and her pulses confessed a quicker motion.— 
With a bashful smile she handed the paper to 
Adelaide. 

‘« Shall I read, mademoiselle ?”’ she asked. 

‘*You may, undoubtedly,” replied Helen, 
with a smile. | 

Adelaide availed herself of this liberty thus 
given, and read the note with evident pleasure. 

‘‘ Who cares for Pierre Moran?’ she ex- 
claimed, with affected contempt. 

‘« Mademoiselle Ridelle cares for him,”’ 
Helen. 

‘‘Not atall; nevertholess I will consent to 
go with you for company,’’ returned Adelaide. 

‘‘T have not said that I should go,’ answered 
Helen. 

_‘* But of course you will,” added Adelaide. 


said 


‘* Tt does not necessarily follow that because. 


a person is requested to do a thing she will do 
it,”” rejoined Helen. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘« Yet it does usually happen that young ma- 
demoiselles go to meet their lovers by moon- 
light,’’ said Adelaide. 

‘* Let us speak seriously, Adelaide.”’ 

‘* With all my heart, mademoiselle.”’ 

‘“‘] will seriously assure you, then, to begin 
with, that I do not feel as though I ought to 
comply with Henri’s request. 1 doubt whether 
it would be maidenly to grant him an interview 
under such circumstances. My heart, Adelaide, 
tells me to go, but there is a secret monitor 
within my bosom that bids me stay.” 

‘* Would it not give you pleasure to see him, 
mademoiselle ?”’ 

“Why do you ask, Adelaide? Do you not 
read your answer upon my glowing cheeks, and 
in my earnest movements? Most gladly would 
I fly to meet my foster-brother.”’ 

‘‘ How convenient it is for you to call him 
brother. Ah, Helen, what a nice excuse for 
loving him !” 

‘« And what excuse have you for loving Pierre ~ 
Moran ?”’ asked Helen. 

‘T have never said I loved him, 
selle Helen.”’ 

‘* Not with your lips, but JOuE achieee have 
been telling me so this long time.’ 

‘‘ Why, mademoiselle !’’ exclaimed Adeltide, 
with a blush. 

‘‘T think I shall not go to the cypress tree,’ 
said Helen, after a pause. 

‘¢ That would be cruel, after Henri has. suf- 
fered so much.’’ 

‘“‘ It might seem so at the first thought.”’ 

‘« He risks his life every time he comes near 
New Orleans, you know, Helen.” 

‘‘Too true, Adelaide.” 

‘Then it is evidently your duty to see him 
to-night, and prevent him from coming again.” 

‘“You use powerful and convincing argu- 
ments, Adelaide, especially when the heart is. 
already prompting me to that course,” said 
Helen, with a smile and a blush. 

‘« Jt is near sunset ; let us go before you re- 
turn home. I love to watch the sun go down 
behind the distant hills, and see his last beams 
lingering among the branches of the trees, as if 


Mademoi- 


a 


THE WHITE ROVER. 63 


caressing them before retiring. Come, do not 
say no, because I know you admire the beau- 
ties of a ruddy sunset as much or more than 
Ido. You are all ready—no excuses—away 
to the cypress shade,”’ said Adelaide. 

‘* Where are you going, girls?’’ asked Ma- 
dame Ridelle, when she saw Helen and Adelaide 
leaving the house. 

“To see the sun set,’’ replied Adelaide, 
gaily. 

‘* Whose son ?”’ returned Madame Ridelle. 

‘* That’s a pun, mother; it is wicked to play 
upon words,”’ replied the daughter. 

** Well, do not go far, or you will be run- 
ning into danger. Several Indians have been 
seen hovering about the outskirts of the town 
lately. Do not go out of sight of the house, for 
we have had sorrow enough, recently, and if 
anything should happen to you and Mademoiselle 
Helen, it would quite unnerve me,” returned 
Madame Ridelle, with true motherly earnestness. 

** We will be very cautious, dear mother,” 
answered Adelaide, and then the two walked 
slowly away towards what is now known as St. 
James's street ; a spot which was then covered 
by a heavy growth. 

As Helen moved on, enlivened by the conver- 
sation Of her companion, she felt her spirits re- 
viving, and the mental depression which she had 
felt for the last half hour, leaving her. The 
sun was setting when they reached the cypress 
named in the note. Its burning disc glowed 
fiery red as it sunk gently and almost imper- 
ceptibly in the far-off west. Its departing 
beams fell with undimmed splendor upon the 
cypress boughs over the heads of the young 
girls. 

‘‘ Let us sit down, mademoiselle, upon this 
mossy knoll,”’ said Adelaide. . 

The fair mademoiselles sat side by side. Soft 
and fragrant breezes fanned their brows, and 
set the green leave? in motion. The continu- 
ous roar of the rolling waters of the Mississippi, 
modulated to,a dreamy and pleasant monotony, 
was borne to their ears. Birds sang gaily from 
the pendant branches. 

- “Am I not a prophetess, mademoiselle? Did 


I not assure you that the sun would set glori- 
ously, to-night?’ said Adelaide, enthusiasti- 
eally. 

‘Tt is indeed acalm and lovely hour. The 
ruddy glow of the setting sun, the gentle sigh- 
ing of the scented winds, the sweet song of the 
untiring birds, together with the agreeable mur- 
mur of the Golden River, has a bewildering 
charm for me,’’ replied Helen, earnestly. ‘‘ To 
me there is sweetest music in the voices of na- 
ture; they have power to attune my spirit to 
responsive harmony. I would that my life 
could pass on in an even current, amid scenes 
and sounds like these far away in the dense 
green wood. It seems tome that one might 
grow better, if not wiser, and more fit for the 
world to come. ‘To commune with nature is to 
cultivate an agreement with all terrestrial 
things. No really bad men, I am inclined to 
believe, have ever been true lovers of nature.” 

“ Tagree with you,” said Adelaide. ‘I have 
often had such thoughts, but I have not often 
had the companionship of a friend to whom I 
could express them. Look! the sunbeams are 
getting lower upon the cypress ; they already fall 
upon the trunk, and will soon be to the ground. 
It is nearly time for Henri to be here.”’ 

‘* Why did you not say Pierre Moran, instead 
of Henri?’ replied Helen. 

‘* Because I seldom speak of him,’ said 
Adelaide. 

‘** 1 do not wonder that the red men love the 
forest,’ continued Helen. ‘‘ It would indeed 
be singular if they did not. Born in the for- 
est, reared in the forest, they know no fitting 
home save that.” 

Helen paused. . 

‘‘T thought I heard a sound,’’ she added. 

‘Tt was but the echo of your own voice,” 
said her companion. 

“There is something noble in an Indian. He 
is true to his instincts, and true to his friends,”’ 
resumed Helen. 

‘Hark!’ interrupted Adelaide. 
quite certain that I heard footsteps.” 

‘* It is near the hour,’ replied Helen. ‘‘ The 
sun’s disc is now hidden by those distant ranges 


‘““T am 


64 


of hills. It is the transition hour—the birth of 
twilight.” | 

Adelaide uttered a piercing shriek, as at: that 
instant the dark, tall figures of two Indians 
stood beside them. Adelaide continued to send 
forth shriek after shriek ; but Helen Lerowe 
was speechless with terror. One of the sava- 
ges laid his tawny hand upon. Adelaide’s arm, 
and motioned her to silence. 

‘‘ White squaws go with us,” he said, in in- 
different French. 

‘“No! no! we cannot!’ cried Adelaide; in 
an agony of terror, attempting at the same time 
to free herself from her captor. But the pow- 
erful hand that was upon her, held her f.ir, 
round arm as though it had been a feeble 
infant’s. 

‘* Must go with us—mount fine horse—ride a 
great way cross rivers and valleys—find anoth- 
er country, full of great prairies, where the sun 
shines always—where are many fine lakes— 
where game is plenty.” 

While the savage’ was speaking, two more 
appeared, leading horses. He who had spoken, 
lifted Helen in his arms and placed her upon 
one of the animals, and the other performed the 
same service for Adelaide. 

The former, who had somewhat recovered 
her presence of mind, now besought their 
captors in the most moving terms to suffer them 
to return home in safety ; but she might have 
spared her eloquence, for her words fell upon 
ears seldom moved to pity by touching appeals. 

With emotions which no pen can describe, 
she saw the red sons of the forest mount their 
horses. One took the steed upon which she 
had been placed, by the bridle, another rode up 
to her side to keep her steady in her seat, and 
to prevent her from attempting to escape; two 
more assumed the same position in relation to 
Adelaide, and in this order they struck into the 
forest, slowly at first, but increasing their speed 
as the fair captives became inured to the mo- 
tions of the horses. ¢ 

Adelaide still continuing to utter piercing 
cries, the savage who rode by her side sternly 
bade her be quiet, and pointed significantly to 


‘! e 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


his scalping-knife. The poor girl shuddered, 
and her fears were still more keenly excited. 

Knowing that her outcries arose unheard by 
those who would gladly assist them, Helen en- 
treated her to be silent (since resistance was 
useless), and submit passively to her fate. 

‘« God,’’ she added, ‘‘ is able to protect us in 
all places. Our friends willsurely attempt our | 
rescue.” 

Although our heroine struggled to comfort 
her companion and hide her own fears, her suf- 
ferings were not theless intense. She beheld 
before her a long and tedious journey, and all 
the horrors of captivity ; and finally, doubtless, 
a death of whose agonies she shuddered to 
think. She perceived at a glance, that their 
captors did not belong to any of the neighbor- 
ing tribes, and she was not long in concluding 
that they were Camanches, a nation of whose 
prowess she had heard much. They were as 
numerous as the leaves of the forest, and bold 
and warlike in their habits. She had, on many 
occasions, heard the governor and St. Dennis 
talk of their daring exploits, and of their eru- 
elties ; but little did she dream at that time of 
ever falling into their hands. She felt assured 
(providing they were really Camanches) that 
they would cross the Mississippi before morn- 
ing, and then pursue their journey in a north- 
western direction. 

Helen was correct in her conjectures. After 
going forward about an hour, they halted on 
the banks of the river. The horses were taken 
over in a flat-boat, and they passed over in a 
canoe. ‘‘ It is singular,” said Helen, ‘‘ that 
they should have a flat-boat. It isnot the kind 
of craft they make use of, and they manage it 
rather awkwardly.’’ 

‘« Tt is one they have stolen from our people, 
probably,”’ replied Adelaide. ‘*They steal 
horses, and why should they not appropriate. 
other things not belonging’ to them, to their 
ov use ?”’ SON 

‘‘ After we re-commence our journey upon. 
the other side,’ added Helen, in a whis- 
per, while they were crossing the river, 
‘‘endeavor by every ingenious expedient to 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


leave some indications that we have passed 
along. When occasion offers, drop portions of 
your scarf, or handkerchief, or ribbons upon 
your bonnet, gloves—anything to mark the 
course we may take ; for be assured all such in- 
dications will be sought for with eagerness by 
those who may attempt to follow us.’ 

** How thoughtful of you,”’ replied her com- 
panion. ‘‘I will follow your instructions.— 
And if I could contrive to hang this green 
ribbon upon the branch of a tree, it could 
scarcely fail to attract attention, and Pierre 
Moran would know it, I am sure. When he 
learns what our fate has been, he will shoulder 
his double-barrelled rifle, and forests and lakes, 
mountains and running rivers will not be able 
to stop him. He is an experienced woodsman, 
and can follow a trail like a bloodhound. More 
than one of these red savages are doomed if he 
takes their trail. His deadly rifle will speak 
more than once, and my father says it never 
cracks in vain, for his aim is unerring.”’ 

“ But you do not love Pierre,’ returned 
Helen, smiling sadly, though the smile cost her 
a severe effort. | 

“*T love him now, Helen,’ replied Adelaide. 

** And while Pierre is upon the trail, Ade- 
laide, where do you think the White Rover will 
be ?”’ asked Helen. 

‘“* Sure enough! Ah, they will both follow 
us !’’ exclaimed Adelaide, in a more hopeful 
tone, pleased with this new idea; and our hero- 
ine felta ray of comfort in seeing her friend 
thus comforted. 

**My father, too, is skilled in wood cvraft. 
His wounds are healed, and he will never re- 
main quietly at home while we are in the 
power of savages. But there is one thing 
which I had not thought of, how will Pierre 
Moran and Henri Deleroix learn our sad story ¢”’ 

‘“By some means, assuredly,’’? answered 
Helen, with a sigh. 

** Ah, you sigh, my dear mademoiselle ; you 
see that it is impossible that either of them 


65 


should learn anything in relation to our fate. 
We shall perish in the wilderness,’ and Ade- 
laide wept afresh. 

‘«‘ Hxercise more fortitude, my companion in 
affliction,’ said Helen, mildly. ‘‘ Do not de- 
spair. Whatever our sufferings may be, let 
us remember that repinings or self-reproaches 
will not avail us anything. Patience, fortitude, 
courage and watchfulness are the qualities that 
we are called upon to exercise, and the only 
traits of character worthy of us at present, 
or that can serve us in this emergency. Set 
the example for me, Adelaide. Let me see 
how strong your heart is; how much noble 
heroism you possess.” 

‘¢ Dear Helen !’’ exclaimed Adelaide, ‘‘ that 
noble heroism which you speak of, you display 
in your own character. Your 
monitions bring me to my senses. 


gentle ad- 
It was my- 
self that was the author of your misfortunes, 
and yet I am the first to repine. Forgive me, 
my friend, and in future I will strive to emulate 
your heroie conduct.” 

In a short time the river was safely passed. 
The captives were again placed upon the horses, 
and the whole party moved on in the same order 
as before, in a north-western direction, as 
Helen had anticipated ; but they went forward 
at much greater speed. 

It was a long and dreadful night to the cap- 
tives. Though reared in anew country, they 
had never been subject to hardship, yet often in’ 
peril. Their powers of endurance were tested 
to the utmost. They were forced to ride through 
a tract of country still encumbered with its pri- 
meval forests, sometimes lying in gentle swells, 
often broken and rugged, and cut up by small 
streams, traversed by lonely valleys, and not 
unfrequently rendered pleasant by an unclouded 
moon, and before morning the fair captives 
were far from New Orleans. Leaving them to 
pursue their dreary way through the trackless 
wilderness, ‘we will now turn cur attention to 
other characters. 


CHAPTER XII. 


HE SECRET AGENT—THE DISCOVERY. — ; 


Av the time of the abduction of Mademoiselles 
Helen and Adelaide, De Bienville was sitting in 
his study in earnest conversation with a person- 
age whom we have not yet introduced to the 
reader, and who is worthy of some description. 

He was a man just in the prime of life, and 
rather above the medium size. His features 
were regular and somewhat stern in their ex- 
pression ; the eyes dark, deep-set and piercing ; 
the forehead high, and the perceptive faculties 
strongly marked. The formation of the mouth 
expressed much determination of character and 
firmness of purpose. He was obviously a man 
who had seen much of life, and one who would 
not shrink from danger when convinced that he 
was pursuing the path of duty. 

‘‘ Boisbriant,’”’ said the governor, ‘“‘I am 
glad to see you. I have been much perplexed 
since your absence, and now perhaps you can 
advise me how to act. What of this Indian al- 
liance ?” 

‘Since I saw you,” replied Boisbriant, ‘I 
have passed through the territories of the most 
powerful and most to be dreaded tribes of Indi- 


ans. No matter what disguise I have assumed, 
or how I have obtained any information, or how 
many hair-breadth escapes I have had, suffice it 
that I have learned about this dangerous move- 
ment emong the red men. There is danger be- 
fore us. The French cclony is threatened with 
destruction.’ 

‘Can you inform me who is the leader in this 
hostile demonstration ?”’ asked De Bienville, 
earnestly. 

‘‘ Onalaska—most commonly called Red-Shoe 
~-the Chickasaw chief,’ answered Boisbriant, 
promptly. | 

‘‘Do you know whether the slaves have real- 
ly joined in this movement, or more properly, 


~ 


whether they intend to rise against their masters — 


when the Indians attack the different settle- 
ments 7” 

‘This is truly their intention, your excellen- 
cy,” replied Boisbriant. 

‘‘ Will you do me the favor to read this,’ 
said the governor, taking the scroll of birchen 
bark from the desk, which Henri had sent by 
Ja Glorieuse. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


Boisbriant read the missive with great appa- 
rent interest. 

‘Should you say that the writer of those 
lines speaks the truth?’ asked De Bienville, 
anxiously. 

** Most undoubtedly. With me the name of 
the writer would be a sufficient guarantee of the 
entire truthfulness of every word,’’ returned 
Boisbriant without hesitation. 

‘You have doubtless heard of the young 
man’s arrest, imprisonment, trial, condemnation, 
&e.?’ continued his excellency 

‘‘T have,” said Boisbriant, drily. 

“« And what do you think of it ?”’ faltered the 
governor. 

» «That it was a most wicked affuir from begin- 
ning to end,” said Boisbriant, decidedly. 

‘«‘ What is your opinion of Captain Lesage ?”’ 
resumed his excellency. 

«That he deserves hanging as much as ever 
aman did!’ returned the secret agent of De 
Bienville, promptly. 

‘“‘Ts it possible that you really regard the 
young man as wholly innocent ?”’ added the goy- 
ernor, musingly. | 

“ Entirely so. Perhaps you will think me 
hasty in my decision, but I attribute the whole 
affair to the agency of Lesage. I grant that 
the evidence against the White Rover was seem- 
ingly conclusive, and that you acted as most 
other conscientious men would have done ; but 
you were all wrong. Lesage is a villain, and 
you will find it so. J have excellent reasons for 
believing that he is plotting with M. Hubert, 
the king’s commissary, for your recall.” 

‘“T thank you for your candor, Boisbriant. 
I feel a strange interest in Henri, and I am glad 
to hear a man like yourself speak in his favor. 
Tn regard to Lesage, I shall keep a watchful 
eye upon him ”’ 

‘Do the same by the commissary,’’ added 
Boisbriant. 

«They shall both be looked after.”’ 

“The office of the commissary is a very 
pleasant one,’’ added the secret agent, with a 
smile. ‘‘ He watches the king’s officers in this 
colony, but who will watch him ?” 


67 


‘« And keep the ministry assured of his hon- 
esty,”’ rejoined his excellency, in the same am- 
biguous manner. 

‘“ As he does of yours,’ said Boisbriant, 
ironically. ‘* And by the way, it has come to 
my knowledge that he has written a long letter 
to the ministry recently, and your name occurs 
in it more than once. It will be well for your 
excellency to remember that M. Hubert and 
this Captain Lesage are on the most intimate 
terms. When two such rogues get together, 
some mischief is being deliberated. Before I 
leave you IT must not forget to speak of one 
other individual—Pierre Moran.” 

‘© You know him, then?’ exclaimed De Bi- 
enville, quickly. 

Boisbriant smiled. 

‘There are few men in Louisiana that I do 
not know. Pierre Moran is a true and tried 
heart. He knows much more of the affairs of 
Louisiana than men give him credit for. Suf- 
fice it that he is very useful to me, consequently 
to you, and the whole colony ; and he is a man 
who can keep a secret. We have met often, 
He has dared much 
peril, and is ready to risk his life again for his 
countrymen ; and yet men do not mistrust that 
there is one tie to bind him to the rest of man- 
kind. J saw him to-day in the forest, and 
learned from him the particulars of Henri Del- 
croix’s arrest and escape, and some things that 
would make the ears of Lesage tingle.” 

‘* You tell me strange things,” said his ex- 
cellency. ‘‘ Do you know Henri personally ?”’ 

‘‘T know something of him by means of 
Pierre Moran and the Indians, much more’ hy 
seeing and observing him often, and by a knowl- 
edge of his conduct on several occasions ; but I 
never exchanged a word with him, or at least 
since he was a mere boy. But nevertheless, 
rest assured that I know him well ” 

‘* Come to me again with De Noyan and St. 
Ange, and we will discuss this matter at our 
leisure, and take such steps as may be deemed 
expedient in order to do justice to all parties,”’ 


replied De Bienville ; and Boisbriant withdrew. 
* % * % * 


and we shall meet again. 


68 


‘« Alice,”’ said Louis Ridelle to his wife, ‘‘ I 
feel quite restored to health. I think I shall 
venture into the woods to-morrow. I can’t live 
away from the forest, you know.” 

‘‘ The force of habit is strong,”’ replied Mad- 
ame Ridelle, with a sigh. ‘‘I wish, Louis, you 
could content yourself at home until these Indi- 
an troubles are over.”’ 

M. Ridelle made no reply, but appeared 
thoughtful. 

‘It is time for Adelaide to return,”’ said 
Madame Ridelle, at length. 

‘‘ Where is she gone ?’’ asked her husband. 

‘*She and Mademoiselle Helen went away 
together.” 

‘“«T hope they have not gone far. 
did they go?” 

‘‘Up the river, towards the cypress grove.”’ 

‘‘ That. was very imprudent. It is no time 
for girls to be out. Iam sorry they went. It 
- is quite dark now.”’ 

‘‘T have been thinking about them for the 
last half hour,” replied Madame Ridelle. ‘‘ To 
tell the truth, I feel uneasy aboutthem. I fear 
something has happened.’’ 

‘‘T hope not, Alice. Perhaps I had better 
take my rifle and go after them,’’ returned Ri- 
delle. 

His good wife did not oppose his design ; and 
so Ridelle took his rifle and left the house, fol- 
lowing the course which she had indicated as 
having been taken by the young girls. 

After he had been gone a short time, Mad- 
ame Ridelle opened the door and looked anx- 
iously out, in the hope of seeing the object of 
her solicitude approaching. But she saw noth- 
ing save the clear blue sky, and che dim out- 
lines of the surrounding forest. When she had 
gazed long and attentively, she was in the act of 
closing the door, when she perceived a folded 
paper lying near the threshold. She stooped 
and secured it, and impelled by a pardonable 
curiosity, opened and read its contents. 

It was the note which Helen had received 
from Henri. The fears of Madame Ridelle 
subsided. 

‘* Tf the girls are with Henri and Pierre, they 
are safe,”’ she said to herself. 


Which way 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


After the lapse of half an hour, Louis Ri- 
delle returned alone. His wife immediately 
showed him the note, remarking as she did so, 
that she presumed they were in no great danger. 

‘«So it would seem,” replied Louis, with a 
smile. | 

Another half hour passed. Both Ridelle and 
his wife arose often and went to the door; but 
the same blue expanse met their gaze, the same 
dark outline of forest. 

‘« This suspense is growing painful to me 
exclaimed Ridelle, at length. ‘‘ Something has 
happened to the girls. Adelaide was never ab- 
sent at this late hour before. Iwill walk to the 
spot indicated in the note.” “oh 

‘‘T think you had better, Louis, for I dor’t 
feel right,’’ replied his spouse, in a tone betray- 
ing much anxiety. 

Ridelle took his rifle and left the house with 
more haste than before. With a foreboding 
sense of some new misfortune, he walked rapid- 
ly towards the cypress grove, and soon stood 
within the sombre shade of the identical tree 
where the fair mesdemoiselle had sat and watch- 
ed the setting sun. 

He called upon the names of Adelaide and 
Helen, softly at first, and then more loudly. 
But the sweet voices of the maidens gave back 
no response. ‘The loved names were only re- 
peated in mocking echoes. Ridelle walked 
along the margin of the wood, still iterating the 
names of the young ladies, but with no better 
success. The idea now occurred to him that 
both had possibly gone to the governor’s res- 
idence, and that he should either find or. hear 
from them there. 

Accordingly he hastened thither without de- 
lay. He learned that they were not there, and 
that Mademoiselle Helen had not been at home 
since dark. Louis hurried back to his own 
house, still buoyed up by the hope that they 
had already returned. The door of his dwell- ’ 
ing was open, and Alice stood upon the steps. 

‘« Have they come ?”’ asked Ridelle, hastily. 

‘* No, Louis ; have you not seen them ?” 

‘* No, wife; I can find no traces of them. I 
have been to the forest; and ealled them in a 


1? 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


loud voice, and searched all along the woods 
skirting that part of the town. I have also 
been to the governor’s residence, and Ma- 
demoiselle Helen has not been there since 
dark,” replied Lous. ‘‘ Bring me the lantern, 
wife, and I will go to the woods once more. I 
scarcely know how to account for my sensations, 
but my heart is full of the most painful appre- 
hensions. ‘Make haste, Alice.” . 

Large tears stood in the eyes of Madame Ri- 
delle, as she placed the lantern in the eager 
hands of her husband. 

‘Don’t weep, wife ; my fears may be ground- 
less, after all,’ continued Louis. Seizing the 
lantern he ran to the forest with a speed that 
bore testimony to the extent of his fears. When 
he reached the cypress ‘tree which he believed 
was mentioned in the note, he held the light 
near the earth and examined it attentively. 
With the ready tact of a veteran woodsman, he 
discovered the prints of human feet in the dis- 
placed moss and leaves, upon the bent grass and 
birchens. 

‘* This is the impress of a female foot—small 
and daintily formed—Mademoiselle Helen’s, or 
my good Adelaide’s. They evidently sat here 
upon this mossy mound. It is easy for one 
who has followed an Indian trail to discriminate 
between the light, small footstep of a woman, 
and the large, heavy step of a man.” 

The forester paused, and held the lantern 
still closer to the ground. ° 

“Ha!” he exclaimed, ‘‘ here is a track never 
made by the dainty feet of Adelaide or Helen. 
The toes incline in, and the heels out ; the own- 
er of both wore mocassins, and was an Indian. 
Just Heaven! I shudder to think of the fate of 
my poor girl, and my sweet friend and benefac- 
tress. Here are more Indian tracks; and here 
are some footprints which do not turn in—a 
white man with mocassins on, doubtless.— 
Where were Pierre and Henri ?” | 

Louis Ridelle ceased, overpowered by his 
emotions. Recovering his self-possession, he 
‘resumed : :” 

‘‘ On this spot are signs of a slight struggle. 
The poor things tried to escape. Vain attempt; 

5 


69 


one of those strong red hands was sufiicient to 
subdue the feeble strength of half a dozen, such 
girls. But what is here? horse tracks, as I 
live! The dear lasses are being borne swiftly 
away to the Indian country at this moment. 
And what may this be ? a small bracelet which 
Mademoiselle Helen wore upon her pretty arm. 
In the name of Heaven, where were Pierre and 
Henri at this time! I ask again,’ exclaimed 
Ridelle,. frantically. 

‘*] hope,”’ he continued, solemnly, ‘ they 
had no agency in this matter. And yet the 
note was from Henri, and’ Pierre’s name was 
mentioned in it, by his consent and approval, 
most likely. It is bad enough to have my dear 
girl torn from me, and borne I know not whith- 
er; but it adds a double poignancy to my 
grief to be obliged to suspect two such men of 
such cruelty and double dealing.”’ 

After tracking for a short distance the horses 
that had borne away his earthly treasure, Louis 
Ridelle sadly returned to his now desolate home. 
Alice, pale, tearful and trembling, waited his 
coming. 

‘« Bear yourself heroically,”’ said the forester, 
sorrowfully. ‘‘ Our dear child and our loved 
Helen have been carried away by the Indians.” 

Madame Ridelle lifted her hands to heaven 
in speechless grief, and then fell senseless into 
her husband’s arms. 

“¢ Do not sink under this cruel blow,’’ added 1 
Louis, as his wife slowly opened her eyes. ‘‘ My 
own heart feels as desolate as yours, Alice ; be 
brave, or it will break. It is time for action, 
not a time to give way to useless grief.’’ 

‘©Q, Louis! to think’that our darling is thus 
eruelly torn from us !”’ 

‘<T know it wife ; it comes home to me with 
terrible force.”’ 

‘And where were Pierre Moran and Henri 
Deleroix ?”’ asked Madame Ridelle, with start- 
ling* earnestness. 

‘7 have asked myself that question many 
times within the last half hour, Alice; but I 
haven’t answered it yet; nor can I answer it, 
Alice ; it will do no good. Time will clear up 
the mystery, and explain all that seems dark 
and dreadful.” 


70 THE WHITE ROVER. 


* 


‘‘ They can’t be guilty ; no, no! Louis, they 
cannot be guilty !”’ exclaimed Alice, wild with 


grief. 


‘Be quict, wife,’ said Louis, soothingly. 


‘‘T must now go and inform the governor of 


what has happened to his sweet ward.’ 

“Don’t tell him about the letter,” replied 
Alice, with an imploring look. ‘‘ It might 
make them think less kindly of Henri.”’ 

‘«T will try and act for the best, Alice,’’ re- 
plied the forester, as he now left his lonely cabin. 

Louis rang violent] ly at the door of the gov- 
ernor’s mansion. 

«Tell the governor that Louis Ridelle would 
speak with him immediately,”’ he said in a hus- 


ky voice, to the servant who appeared in an- 


swer to the bell. 

‘His excellency is about retiring,” 
the servant. 

‘‘T care not. I must see him, even if he 
were already in bed and asleep.” 

Awed by the imperative manner of the forester 
and his evident excitement, the servant carried 
his message to the governor without delay. 

In a few moments Louis stood face to face 
with De Bienviile. 

‘‘T come to you the bearer of bad news,”’ 
faltered Ridelle. ‘‘ Helen, your ward, and my 
benefactress, has—’’ 

‘* What has happened to,her ?”’ exclaimed the 
governor, impatiently. 


replied 


‘«She'and my daughter have been carried off 


by the Indians.”’ 
De Bienville grew very pale. 
‘‘ When did this happen ?”’ he asked, quickly. 
“ This very night.” 
‘‘Tell me the particulars so far as you 
know them,”’ added the governor. 
The forester related the manner in which they 


had left the house, suppressing the fact that. 


there had been.a previous appointment by Henri. 


‘And have you no knowledge of their ob-| 


ject in going to the forest at so late an hour ?” 
Ridelle was much confused by this question, 


and his confusion did not escape the prying 


glance of De Bienville. 
‘Tt was not bi late, your excellency. The 


sun had not yet gone down when they left the 


house,’’ stammered Louis. 

«There is something you would conceal from 
me, Monsieur Ridelle. I must know every par- 
ticular. in order that I may know how to. act. 
I command you, no, I entreat you, to tell me 
all. Was there not some previous appointment, 
and was there not a note or something of that 
kind in the affair ?”’ 


The honest forester could evade the governor — 


no longer, and he answered with some hesitation : 

‘There was a note, your excellency.”’ 
. “ Did you see it, or have you got it?” de- 
manded De Bienville. 

“‘ T have got it,’”’ said Ridelle. 

“To whom was it directed ?”’ 

‘* To Helen—your ward.” 

‘« Give it to me instantly, Monsieur Ridelle. 
[ have a right to know everything that relates to 
her,’’ added the governor, somewhat sternly. 

With a sorrowful heart the forester drew the 
note from his pocket where he had placed it after 
its perusal, and put it into the trembling hand 
of the governor. 

De Bienville’s brow grew dark and stormy as 
he read it. 7 

‘“‘The knave, the double villain!’’ he ex- 
claimed, angrily, stamping violently upon the 
floor. ‘* Would that he had heen hanged before 
this wickedness had been consummated.”’ 


Then turning sternly to the forester, he said, 


in a reproachful voice : 

‘* Do you affect not to understand all this, 
Monsieur Ridelle? Are you so blind that you 
cannot see whose hand has brought this sore ca- 
lamity upon us? Tell me no more of the inno- 
cence of that young dissembler. 
—guilty as—”’ 

De Bienville checked himself. 


‘This note is in Delcroix’s hand-writing, - 


Monsieur Ridelle, is it not ?”’ he akon 

“T am forced to confess that it is,’ answered 
Louis. 

‘‘Itis the same as that upon the birchen 
scroll, and he acknowledges that to be his,” ad- 


‘ded the governor. 


‘* It’s too true, your excellency,”’ replied the 


forester, sadly. 


He is guilty ° 


) 


THE WHITE ROVER. — 71 


‘*T have recently been striving to convince 
myself that Lesage is a villain; but this affair 
cannot well be laid upon: the shoulders of Le- 
sage, as broad asthey are. This is undoubtedly 
the chirography of the Rover. Stay, I will 
compare it with some of his writing that I have 
in my desk.” 

The governor produced the scroll he had 
_ received from Henri, and compared the two to- 
gether. 7 

‘T can detect no difference, Monsieur Ri- 
delle,’’ he said, after looking at the characters 
attentively. 

‘There is possibly something about this yet 
to be discovered,’’ added the forester. ‘‘ There 
is still. a chance for Pierre and Henri to be 
innocent.” 

“T hope so, most sincerely. My poor, poor 
Helen! I loved her, Monsieur Ridelle, as well 
as though she had been my own child. Her 
amiable disposition, her beauty, her many grace- 
ful and endearing ways, have entirely won my 


love. This is a severe blow tome. Alas, and 
for you, also, my friend. But what shall be 
done ?”’ 


‘‘T must take the trail and follow the dear 
girls until I find them, or die in the attempt. 
Tam an old woodman, your excellency, and 
there is no living thing in the forest that I fear, 
whether it be savage, or wild beast. Yes,’’ he 
continued, with increasing energy, ‘‘I shall go 
after them, and if they have suffered wrong at 
the hand of any white man, that man shall die ; 
I, Louis Ridelle, say it, and will say it until I 
make my word good.” 

‘Noble heart !’’ exclaimed De Bineville. 
‘« Heaven, I feel assured, will reward your ef- 
forts with success. But you shall not go alone 
I will give you as many men as you choose, to 
be under your command.” 

‘*] thank you,”’ replied the forester, ‘‘ but I 
do not want them. One experienced hunter is 
worth a whole army of raw soldiers on the trail. 
They wont do; they will do more harm than 
good. ‘Trust the whole matter to me. <A fa- 
ther’s love will not sleep, and wiil leave no 
means untried to rescue his darling.” 


‘*T do, apd will trust it all to you,”’ said the 
governor, earnestly, ‘‘ and feel that I could not 
entrust the important business to better hands. 
I know that you will not be idle or mactive ; 
for a daughter’s safety claims all your energies 
of body and mind. If you want arms, ammuni- 
tion or men, come to mé, and all shall be at 
your command.”’ 

As nothing further could be said or done in 
relation to the unhappy affair the forester took 
leave of the governor to make preparations for 
following the abductors of his daughter. Upon 
his way to his cabin, be met Captain Lesage. 
He was hurrying past him, when the: captain 
addressed him : 

‘* Good evening, Monsieur Ridelle. 
away so fast ?”’ 

‘* Hxcuse me, captain. J-haye urgent busi- 
ness to attend to at this time,” replied Louis. 

‘* My dear friend, you seem afflicted. What 
has happened ? ?” exclaimed the captain, in tones 
denoting the deepest interest. 

‘‘ My daughter, captain—my daughter has—”’ 

‘‘ Speak, Monsieur Ridelle! Tell me what 
has happened to Mademoiselle Adelaide ?”’ cried 
Lesage, earnestly. 

‘« She has been seized by the Indians and car- 
ried away,’’ added the forester, looking search- 
ingly at Lesage. 

‘“‘ Sacre Dieu! You curdle 
my blood with horror !”’ exclaimed the captain, 
with well acted sincerity. ‘‘ How long since 
this sad occurrence ?”’ he added, apparently as- 
tounded at what his ears had heard. 

‘“* Alas! this very night,’ said Louis. 

‘* Are you well assured that the savages have 
indeed robbed you of your fair-girl?’’ continued 
Lesage, in the same sympathizing, anxious tone. 

‘‘ She is gone, and Mademoiselle Lerowe has 
shared the same unhappy fate.”’ 

‘‘No!’’ exclaimed the captain, recoiling with 
horror. ‘‘ No! you butjest. The savages dare 
not commit an act of such uncalled for cruelty. 
By my soul, Monsieur Ridelle, your intelligence 
seems more like some horrible nightmare! We 
have indeed fallen upon.troublous times.” 

During this interview the forester had watch 


Whither 


Ts it possible ! 


72 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


ed the features of Lesage attentively ; and his! it; you have suspicions, and I know which way 


well acted surprise and horror had its effect up- 
on him as the keen dissembler intended. 

‘«T pity you from the deepest recesses of my 
soul,”’ added the captain, in that low, subdued 
and sad voice which he could simulate so well. 
‘« How did it happen that they should both go 
to the forest at the hour of evening, when it is 
so unsafe for even men to venture there ?”’ 

‘« Tt is very singular,’ said Louis, evasively. 

‘« And very melancholy,’? added Lesage. 

‘“« A strange thought has just occurred tome,”’ 
he resumed, in a musing tone, ‘‘but I fain 
would dismiss it. The governor’s ward, it is 
supposed, was but too partial to that misguided 
youth but lately escaped from the hands of jus- 
tice. Think you, Monsieur Ridelle, that she 
went to the forest to meet him ?”’ 

‘« Tt is possible,” said the forester. 

‘‘T hope, Monsieur Ridelle, that there has 
been fair play—that the Rover knows no more 
of this melancholy transaction than he should. 
It is possible that I am speaking to one of that 
person’s best friends ; but if I am, I really can- 
not help it. I beg your pardon, but I truly 
cannot altogether repress my emotions, more es- 
pecially as I see by your own manner that you 
have your suspicions. Yes, you cannot disguise 


they point. I sympathize with you deeply, and 
am ready to assist you allin my power. I think 
I can in some measure understand the feelings 
of a kind and devoted parent'under such a dis- 
pensation as you -have been called to suffer. 
My emotions are getting the better—I—I—ex- 
cuse my weakness, but my feelings towards the 
author of this unparalleled outrage are far. from 
pacific and forgiving. I ought to exercise 
Christian charity, but by all the saints in the 
calendar, I can’t do it! Good night, friend 
Ridelle, good night. I will see the governor, 
and something shall be done immediately.” 

Captain Lesage wiped his eyes, grasped the 
hilt of his sword fiercely, and strode away. 

He left the forester standing in the street, 
quite confounded at.the exhibition of so much 
eloquence and sympathy. He resumed his 
homeward way, absorbed in thought. Just as 
he entered his own door, he exclaimed, half — 
aloud : Y 

‘‘Hang the fellow! he’s too sympathizing. 
his heart isn’t apt to overflow so suddenly. The 
captain has either been serving the devil lately, 
or he is going to immediately; I must find 
out which it is.”’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


SUCCESSFUL VILLANY—TO THE RESCUE. 


‘“*T am weary of staying here with these sav- 
ages,’’ said Pierre Moran, upon the morning 
succeeding the events just related. 

‘*T confess I am not greatly pleased with hav- 
ing my movements so much restrained,’’ replied 
the Rover. 

‘* Let us leave our red friends, then, for a 
few hours, and walk towards New. Orleans,”’ 
added the hunter. 

** The proposal suits me well,’’ answered Hen- 
ri. ‘*I long to look once more upon the spot 
containing the object of my love.” 

‘* You have expressed my own emotion,” said 
Pierre. ‘‘ Look! the sun is just trembling up- 
on the rim of the horizon. A smart walk of an 
hour will take us to the margin of a wood bor- 
dering New Orleans, from whence we may see 
the dwellings which contain those so dear to us. 
And yet when I think of it, so near an approach 
to the town may be attended with danger to 
both, more particularly to you.” 

‘ Brave men and true lovers heed no danger,” 
answered the swe sisi asmile. ‘‘'Take your 
rifle, and let us go.” 

The two foresters eral rapidly towards the 
new settlement. 

‘* T hope the day will come,”’ resumed Henri, 
‘‘when I may approach New Orleans as an 
honest man should—without a single stain upon 
my name and character.”’ 

‘That day will most surely arrive, my 
friend,” replied Moran. ‘I feelin my heart 
that it will. Lesage will yet be exposed, and 
suffer the penalty ever due to wickedness. If 
human justice does not reach him, God’s justice 
will.”’ 

‘My spirit grows sad within me,” said the 





Rover, ‘‘ as we approach New Orleans. I ean- 
not forget the bitter wrong that has been done 
me there. It makes my blood burn with in- 
dignation and shame to think of it. The 
period shall come when I will prove to the 
whole colony that I despise a traitor, and love 
the French.” 

‘‘T doubt it not, gallant Rover,”’ 
Pierre. 

The lengthened strides of the foresters soon 
brought them to the borders of New Orleans. 

‘‘ Beneath this eypress,’? resumed Henri, 
sadly, ‘‘I once met Helen Lerowe, by the 
merest accident ; but I have reason to suppose 
that it was a pleasurable meeting to both. I 
know it was to me. While standing exactly 
here where we do now, Lesage, like a bird of 
evil omen, passed us. I saw him look at 
Helen and me. I well remember how his 
keen, snaky, gray eye was fastened upon me 
during that brief interval of timé which he oc- 
cupied in passing. I had a presentiment even 


responded 


then, that that man was my enemy. ‘Time has 


proved the presentiment sooth. Pierre Moran, 
I ardently long for the time when I can meet 
him face to face, and punish him for his sins.”’ 

The Rover uttered the concluding sentence 
in a voice of deep feeling. 

“Tt was with the greatest difficulty that I 
could refrain from spurning him with my foot 
when he dared to stand up before me and offer 
me money to take the life of a fellow-man !”’ 
exclaimed Moran. ‘Had I known you and 
him as I now do, most bitterly should he have 
suffered for his insolence. The moment I saw 
you—when you hurled aside the savages, and 
scattered the blazing brands to the winds, I 


74 


knew you ; for the ‘ lying chief’ had described | 
you well—his only tribute to truth in a,long 
time, probably. I will now step forward a little 
to get a glimpse of Monsieur Ridelle’s house 
If I see any of the towns-people stirring, I will 
tell you, and if all is ok we can evide 
venture a little nearer.’ 

Pierre Moran left the Rover sitting beneath 
the cypress, and advanced towards the town. 

In a moment he called to his comrade : 

‘«T cansee Monsieur Ridelle’s. Allis quiet ; 
none of the towns-folks seem to be on the qui 
vive. They little think we are so near, I dare 
say.”’ 

‘* Villain! robber! seducer of innocence !”’ 
eried a deep, stern voice, ‘‘ there is one who is 
on the qui vive—one who suspects you—one 
who knows you are near,’? and then Louis 
Ridelle, deadly pale, and fearfully excited, 
stepped forth from behind the trunk of a large 
sycamore. 

‘* What!’ exclaimed the.bold hunter, aston- 
ished beyond measure. 

‘‘Well feigned astonishment! consummate 
hypocrisy !’”’ continued Ridelle, 
ing vehemence. 
to me.”’ 

‘Monsieur Ridelle,”’ began Pierre, much 
embarrassed by his unaccountable conduct. 

‘«Give me back my daughter, and throw off 
the mask at orfte, or I may forget that it isa 
crime to take the life of a human being,”’ added 
Ridelle. 

‘« [ know nothing of your daughter, Monsieur 
- Ridelle. Speak quickly and tell me what has 
happened to Adelaide !”’ cried the hunter, con- 
vinced that his friend was laboring under some 
dreadful mistake. 

‘* Did you ever see this note Before? ?? said 
Ridelle, sarcastically, holding up the folded 
. paper with Helen’s name upon it. 

‘“‘ Never !’’ replied Pierre, more and more 
bewildered at what he heard and saw. 

‘* Why should you add falsehood to the crime 
of robbing a parent of his child?’ rejoined 
Louis. ‘‘I had cherished the hope that -you 
were innocent, and that qll might yet be ex- 


with increas- 
‘* Bring her back, restore her 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


plained ; but your own words just now unde- 
ceive my too credulous heart. Pierre Moran, 
this insult, this great wrong, can only be washed 
out in blood.” 

‘‘ Here is some fatal mistake,” said the Rover, 
coming forward and standing between Ridelle 
and Moran. 

‘And you, probably, never saw this before ?”’ 
added the former, holding up the note once more. 

‘‘T protest that I never did, to my knowl- 
edge,’ replied Henri, calmly. 

‘“Mon Dieu!’’ groaned - Louis. 
hardihood !’’ . 

‘Monsieur Ridelle, will you permit me to 
look at that paper ?’’ said Henri. 

Ridelle threw it contemptuously at his feet, 
and watched the Rover’s countenance as he 
read it. 

‘“‘M. Ridelle,’’ said our hero, handing the — 
paper to Pierre, ‘‘I most solemnly assure you 
that I did not write a single letter of that note, 
and I call heaven and earth to witness to my 
words.” 

‘«Tell me what meaning I shall attach to the 
strange words of Pierre Moran whicl he utter-— 
ed when’ he first stood upon that knoll and look- 
ed towards the cabin now robbed of its dearest 
inmate ?” 

‘¢T meant that escaping from prison as I had 
so recently done by his assistance, that all our 
movements might be watched by those anxious 
to work my ruin. We approached the town 
with caution, for the purpose of looking upon 
the spot rendered dear to us by those we love. 
The remarks of our mutual friend, Moran, had 
relation only to the peculiar circumstances in 
which we are placed. Neither of us entertain- 
ed the remotest idea that aught unfortunate had 
befallen Adelaide—the fair Eis so highly es- 
teemed by us all.”’ 

The bereaved forester sat down upon the 
earth and covered his face with his hands. 

‘‘T know not what to think,” he said, sadly. 
‘« Perhaps I have beey too hasty-; if I have, you 
will forgive a heart-broken man when I tell you~ 
that Adelaide has been stolen from me; and 
that Helen Lerowe has shared the same fate.” 


“« What 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


The White Rover staggered beneath the ter- 
rible intelligence ; while Pierre Moran stood as 
if transfixed to the earth, with pale cheek and 
staring eyes. 

‘* | forgive you, friend Ridelle,”’ said Pierre, 
at length, in a mournful voice ; ‘‘ and now make 
haste to tell me all you know of this strange 
affair.’” 

“Quick, quick, for I burn with impatience !”’ 
eried Henri, while the blood rushed back to his 
face agaitl, and his eyes flashed with indignation. 

The forester related all that he knew of the 
abduction from beginning to end, including his 
interview with the governor and with Lesage. 

“‘Can you not see,’’ exclaimed the Rover, 
impatiently, ‘‘that this is the work of Les- 
age? Fools! fools! are ye all, not to perceive 
it. Where is the trail? Let us not waste 
time, but pufsue the abductors to the death. 
Come, Ridelle, be a man; up and away. Now, 
Pierre, is the time to prove our claims to 
woodcraft.” 

“Right, brave boy, right. Shake hands 
with me, both of you, to assure me of your for- 
giveness !’’ exclaimed Ridelle. 

‘* With all my heart and soul,”’ said Pierre. 
‘* Here is a hand that never betrayed you, and 
never wiill.”’ 


** And here is another that will never be idle 


until your daughter is restored to your arms,” 
added Henri. 

**T thank you, my brave lad. I was mad to 
suspect you for a momont. And now I am 
ready for the trail. Here is where the dear 
girls sat beneath this tree, expecting your foot- 
steps every moment, no doubt; and were ex- 
pecting you when their captors sprang to their 
side and secured them. The trail starts here 
and winds off in that direction. I came here 
to follow it alone, determined never to return 
without my darling.” 

‘<T perceive that the party who stole the 
maidens were mounted,’’ remarked Pierre, 
while he examined the ground attentively. 

‘¢ And by the particular shape of the hoof, I 
learn that they were mounted upon horses young 
and strong,’’ said the Rover. 


Saeed eee oe ae 


75 


‘* By the tracks here beneath the cypress,” 
resumed Pierre, {‘ I know that the active agents 
in this transaction were Indians; for here are 
‘ootprints which toe in.” 

‘‘T have discovered tracks which do not toe 
in,” returned the Rover, quickly. 

‘« Sufficient evidence,”’ rejoined Pierre, “ that 
the enterprise was conducted by a white man.” 

‘‘T am glad you have made these discov- 
eries,’’ said Louis. ‘‘I had already arrived at 
the same conclusions. I am indeed fortunate 
to have such assistants. There is one thing 
more to be ‘considered ; can you tell what tribe 
of Indians left this trail ?”’ 

‘‘ [ think I shall be able to tell you after fol- 
lowing the trail one hour,’’ said Henri. 

‘The trail turns towards the Mississippi,’’ re- 
turned Ridelle. 

The little but determined party now moved 
slowly along the trail, noticing the faintest im- 
prints left by horses’ feet. 

‘* As many as six horses have passed over 
this ground,”’ observed the hunter. 

esa was about to make the same remark,” 
said Henri. 

As the trail was very plain the foresters now 
quickened their pace and in an hour reached the 
place where the party crossed the river. 

There was now a consultation in regard to the 
manner in which they should reach the opposite 
shore. To construct a raft with their hatchets 
competent to secure them a safe passage across 
the Father of Waters, would not be an easy 
task ; and so Ridelle volunteered to retrace his 
steps along the river’s bank until he should 
meet with some boatman, or reach the town, 
where he could easily procure a cance. 

Without loss of time he hurried away to put 
his resolution in practice. 

Pierre sat down on the bank of the river; 
but Henri was too impatient and restless to re- 
main a moment at rest, and so he walked away 
by himself, to indulge in his own melancholy 
thoughts without being seen by a human be- 
ing. Scarcely conscious which way he went, he 
continued his walk for some time, and as it 
happened towards the town. 


CHAPTER XY. 


A SERIES OF UNEXPECTED INTERVIEWS. 


Henri, at length abated his pace, and finally 
sat down upon the trunk of a fallen birch. He 
had scarcely assumed that position when he was 
sure that he saw a human figure passing swiftly 
among the trees. The Rover sprang from his 
seat, and darting onward with the rapidity of a 
deer, stood full in the man’s path. 

‘‘We have met at last, Captain Lesage,”’ 
said the Rover, with a bitter smile. ‘‘ I have 
ever believed that this happiness was in reserve 
for me.” 

‘“‘ Chef Menteur ’’ recoiled precipitately three 
or four paces. ‘ He did not speak, for he could 
not; his surprise and consternation were too 
great to allow him to call his vocal organs into 
action. He stood and gazed fixedly at Henri, 
with pale cheeks and tremulous limbs. 

‘«T perceive, captain, that this meeting is un- 
expected to you, and takes you by surprise. 
You may well tremble to meet the man whose 
life you foully conspired against, and whom you 
perjured yourself to convict of a capital crime. 
Thus far, Heaven in its impartial justice has 
overturned many of your schemes, and I hope 
it will, in its mercy, baffle that one in which you 
are now engaged. Do not affect an astonish- 
ment you de not feel, captain, for with me it 
will avail nothing. Iam well persuaded that 
the two missing maidens have been abducted by 
your agency ; but I do most solemnly assure 
you—and you may write it down in your mem- 
ory as something certain—that you will never 
live to reap the reward which you earnestly 
hoped to when planning this new piece of vil- 
lany. Helen Lerowe scorns you with her whole 
soul, and were she a thousand miles from here 
in the very heart of asayage country, she would 


still spurn you from her with unuttefable con- 
tempt.” 

‘« This insolence shall not be forgotten !”’ ex- 
claimed Lesage, passion at length getting the 
better of his fears. 

‘* Be careful that you do not tempt my mood !”’ 
retorted Henri. ‘‘I may forget myself, and 
throw you into the waters of that darkly flowing 
river. Who could tell the tale of your death, 
if some days hence your body should be found 
among the dank weeds many miles below here ?”’ 

‘* Remember, vain and imprudent  boaster, 
that Tam armed,” returned the captain, laying 
his hand uponhis sword. ‘‘ I know howto use 
this weapon,”’ he added, witha show of courage 
which he did not really feel. | 

‘«T care not for your sword ! To me it is but 
a feeble reed ; for I have right and justice upon 
my side, and without: these the best-tempered 
steel loses its keen edge. The polished blades 
of Toledo are not formidable when wielded by 
men who pervert truth and trample honor under 
their feet, when matched with those who fight 
in defence of innocence and virtue.” 

‘* What does all this idle nonsense portend ?”’ 
cried Lesage. ‘‘ Out of my path, and let me 
pass !”’ : | 

‘* Do not stir,’’ returned the Rover, impres- 
sively, ‘‘ do not stir as much as a single inch, 
until I have done with you.”’ 

‘« This unparalleled effrontery surpasses all my - 
powers of endurance !’’ exclaimed the captain. 

‘Who but contemptible cowards would hire 
aman to slay a fellow-creature in cool blood. 
Think of it, captain, and tear those badges 
which tell your rank, from your shoulders. I 
shall live to expose your villany yet.” 


1»? 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘* But you will never live to wed Helen Le- 
rowe |’’ retorted Lesage, whose courage was mo- 
mentarily rising, as he saw no absolute hostile 
demonstrations on the part of Henri. 

‘Speak not of her, Lesage. Do not repeat 
often the name of Helen Lerowe. She is too 
pure for lips like yours to speak of.”’ 

‘Please yourself with that delusive idea, if 
you will; but know, insolent adventurer, that 
she loves me.’ 

** Loves you !”’ exclaimed Henri, disdainfully. 

‘* Ay, son of nobody, I had it from her own 
lips,’’ returned Lesage, with a sneer. 

‘| believe you utter a falsehood. You might 
reiterate that a thousand times, and I would not 
credit the tale,”’ replied Henri. 

The captain was now thoroughly aroused. 

‘The governor’s ward would not link her 
destiny with a condemned felon, without name 
and without parentaga Perhaps you never 
thought of this; but she has, and so has the 
governor. No! no!” continued the captain, 
with a mocking laugh, ‘‘ Helen Lerowe, the 
fairest maiden in Louisiana, will never wed the 
son of nobody.”’ | 

The nerves of the Rover could bear no more. 
Before the captain had anticipated the move- 
ment enough to draw his sword, he had sprung 
towards him and struck him down with his 
clenched hand, and spurned him with his foot. 
Stung to madness by the punishment, Lesage 
recovered his feet as quickly as possible, and 
made furious passes at Henri with his sword ; 
but the latter parried them with his tomahawk, 
which he wielded with a dexterity only acquired 
by long association with the Indians. In a 
moment the captain’s weapon was broken at 
the hilt. 

‘* | will not cheat the hangman,”’ said Henri, 
_ as Lesage stood disarmed before him; and at his 
mercy. ‘‘I will leave you to a punishmeht far 
greater than any I can inflict; for it is not 
impious to believe, that Heaven has already 
marked you for a dreadful doom. (Go, and re- 
member that I shall ever be upon your track, 
to detect your villanies and expose your wick- 
edness.”’ : 


77 


With these words Henri walked away. He 
had gone but a few paces when he heard the re- 
port of a pistol, and a ball whistled by his head. 
He turned quickly towards the spot .where he 
had left Lesage, and saw him running as fast 
as he was able. The Rover levelled his rifle, 
but changed his mind, and did not fire. 

‘« Not now,”’ he said to himself, ‘‘ not now. 
Let me wait till my innocence is established, 
and then I shall see him sinking in his proper 
place.”’ 

‘Tt would be a waste-of powder and ball,”’ 
said a voice. Henri looked towards the speaker 
and beheld a man in the prime of life, and wear- 
ing the garb of a forester. 

‘* You have done well to spare him, young 
man!” he added. ‘‘ The measure of his wick- 
edness is not yet full. Let him go on for ashort 
time longer, and his career of crime will be con- 
summated.”’ . 

‘‘ You know Lesage, then?’’ said Henri, as- 
tonished at what be had heard. 

‘‘Tknow him well. I have observed him 

g, and when other eyes failed to detect his 
villanies. The day of his triumph is well nigh 
spent ; the night of his disgrace and ignominy 
approaches. I have heard of the abduction of 
the maidens. I am well assured that you had 
no agency in it ; neither had Pierre Moran.” 

‘Tt would seem that you know me also ?”’ 
replied the Rover. 

‘* Believe me, Monsieur Delcroix, that there 
are but few 1 donot know in the French col- 
ony,’’ answered the stranger, whom the reader 
will recognize as Boisbriant, the secret agent of 
De Bienville. 

‘Should I be deemed impertinent were I to 
ask with whom I am conversing?’ asked our 
hero, much interested in the stranger. 

‘Tam one who flits silently from place to 
place ; one who is known by many names, and 
familiar with many disguises; one who sees 
much, and is little seen, and who knows much 
and is little known,”’ replied Boisbriant. 

‘‘ You are the secret agent of De Bienville,”’ 
said Henri, with a smile. 

‘‘ How knew you, young man, that he had a 
secret agent ?’”’ asked Boisbriant. 


long 


* 


78 


‘‘ By the merest accident I had arrived at 
that knowledge ; but from a source that never 
did and never will betray you or your plans,”’ 
returned the Rover. 

‘*T have seen De Bienville, and I have read 
the writing you senthim. You stated the truth 
” added Boisbriant. 

‘*[ thank you for your good opinion. It 
produces a thrill of unspeakable pleasure to 
hear one, who has had an opportunity of know- 
ing the truth, speak in my favor !” 
feat in a gratified tone. 


and nothing more, 


exclaimed 


‘*T have declared your innocence in the pres- 
ence of the governor ; but I fear the abduction 
of the maidens, and the fact that a note pur- 
porting to be from you was found, has seriously 
shaken his faith in your integrity,’’ added the 
agent. 

‘* Alas, my friend, I seem destined to be con- 
tinually misunderstood,’’ rejoined Henri. 

‘«* You now propose, doubtless, to go on the 
trail and rescue the maidens. I will not at- 
tempt to dissuade you from the undertaking, 
for it is praiseworthy and right. 
‘ safely reckon me among your friends. While you 
are gone, I shall not be idle. While I serve 
my king and country, I will also serve you — 
Lesage will be closely watched. Let him do 
what he may, there will be eyes ever upon him. 
No matter if [ am far away, there will still be 
those near ever observant of his actions. I have 


But you may 


some power, young man, and it shall be used in 
your favor when opportunity offers. The 
slave alluded to in your missive shall be arrest- 
ed, together with several others. This step, I 
am in hopes, will hold the rebellion among the 
blacks in check, and dampen the ardor of 
Red-Shoe.” 

‘“‘The Chickasaws and Choctaws will soon be 
replied Henri. 
** At least, judging from present appearances, 
such must be the result, which will defer any 
hostile movement on the part of the Chickasaws 
for some time, and this will be favorable to the 
safety of the colony.” 

‘* You are right, and you will have ample 
time to rescue the maidens, or at least to learn 


involved in a sanguinary war,”’ 


THE WHITE ROVER. ,. 


what their fate may have been, before the blow 
is struck. The colony will then need the aid of 
your arm and influence, and I doubt not it will 
have both.” 

“Tt shall; and if my life is needed to seal 
my oe for my country, it shall be freely - 
given,”’ said Henri, earnestly. 

“ We must part now,’ added Boisbriant, 
‘‘but we shall meet again; yea, more than 
once, and in places and under. circumstances 
when least expected, perhaps. Bear up under 
adversity like a man ; keep a bold heart in your 
bosom, and present a bold front to your enemies. 
Perseverance and virtue must triumph at last 
over all obstacles.”’ 

‘‘ Before we part,’’ said the Rover, earnestly, 
‘‘may Task if we have often met before ; if 
ever, where, and when ?’’ 

‘* Allin good time; it matters not now.— 
Linger no longer heres Remember that your 
Helen is in captivity, and torn from you by the 
arts of a villain. Follow her captors like a 
tireless hound. Pursue them with the cunning 
of a serpent, and a perseverance no toil can dis- 
courage and no danger appal.”’ 

With these words Boisbriant waved his hands 
and walked away, and in a few seconds was out 
of sight. . 

The Rover hastened back to the spot where 
he had left Pierre. When he reached the mar- 
gin of the river, he saw a canoe containing four 


persons approaching from the direction of New 


Orleans. Before it touched the shore, Henri 
recognized Madame Mablois, La bee Ette 
Actal, and Ridelle. 

‘«T am indeed happy to see you, Madame Ma- 
blois ?’ exclaimed the Rover, warmly embrac- 
ing the Frenchwoman. ‘* And you, also, fair 
datipttot of the Sun,”’ he added extending a 
hand to thé princess. 

‘* My dear Henri,”’ said Mddunle Mablois, . 
‘‘T have suffered much on your account : but I 
thank Heaven that I see you at yr and out 
of immediate danger.” 

‘* And I must not forget to thank you and . 
the princess for the liberty I enjoy. It is to 
you that I am indebted for my freedom, as well 


a 


¢ 


“in life. 


* veins; it would not disgrace a prince. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


as to the two gallant hearts who were the direct 
agents In my escape.” | . 

Matlame Mablois took Henri by the arm and 
drew him gently from his companions. 

“You have known me from your childhood, 
Henri,’’ she said with feeling, ‘‘ and you know 
that I cherish for you a mother’s regard. I 
know whither you are now going. For my 
sake be careful of your own safety. Do not 
expose yourself to unnecessary danger.” 

‘‘ And why should [ cling to life with such 
tenacity ?’’ he answered. ‘‘ Has existence been 
So precious to me hitherto that I should wish to 
preserve it so carefully? Were I like many 
others it might be different. Remember, dear 
Madame Mablois—you who have supplied the 
place of mother to me with such fidelity—that 
Iam a nameless youth. Iam called Henri 
Deleroix ; but why I was thus named, I know 
not. Upon this subject I am daily growing 
more sensitive. It gives me pain to reflect upon 
what [ may possibly be. Is it not in your 
power, my more than friend, to clear up this 
mystery ? I feel that it is; and I do most earn- 
estly entreat of you to tell me the worst.— 
Anything is better than this uncertainty ; even a 
humiliating truth is preferable to this suspense.”’ 

“Wait yet a little longer, Henri. If I 
know aught of your parentage, rest assured that 
I keep it from you for the best of reasons. 
You know me too well to imagine that I would 


withhold any intelligence which would be for 


your interest. Try and feel that I am acting 
like a reasonable and discreet friend, and anxious 
to make you happy, and better your condition 
This much I will say ; you need not be 
ashamed of the blood that circulates in your 
Have 
faith in Heayen’s justice, and in me. The 
night of your sorrow is passing, and the sun of 
your prosperity and happiness is already rising ; 
even now it trembles on the eastern verge.”’ 

Mablois paused: Her bosom swelled with 
pride. She grasped the Rover’s arm, and spoke 
with thrilling earnestness. 

‘* Henri, you are not what you may have 
thought yourself to be. No, no! You will yet 


79 


be ranked with the best blood of the land.— 
Your proud and lofty spirit will yet rise to its 
proper place. As the sun of Lesage goes 
down, yours will go up towards the zenith. Be 
not desponding. In your attempts to save the 
fair and beloved Helen from the fate to which 
a villain has doomed her, I again repeat be 
careful of your own life; for you must live to 
triumph over all your enemies. Yes, you must, 
and I feel and know that you will.”’ 

‘“ Your words, dearest madame, inspire me 
with a new hope. My pulses beat with a new 
life, my blood flows with a more genial warmth. 
Henceforth I will struggle manfully with my 
fate. I will try to be all that you can wish. 
Hear not for me. All will be well.” 

‘* Nobly spoken, my brave boy. 
heart beats more lightly than your own. 
us return to our friends ; they wait for us.”’ 

While Mablois was speaking, the sound of 
horses’ feet were heard, and in a moment twelve 
mounted warriors made their appearance. 

Henri and Pierre grasped their weapons, but 
relinquished them again when they perceived 
that the new comers were a party ‘of Natchez 
warriors. 

‘‘What means this, La Glorieuse?’’ asked 
the Rover. | 

‘« Those are some of our bravest warriors that 
I sent for two days ago. If the White Rover 
wants them, they are ready to go on the trail, 
and fight his enemies,’’ replied the princess. 

‘« This is kind, noble, generous La Glorieuse. 
[am indeed grateful. I will consult with my 
friends in regard to the matter.’’ 

After some consultation with Pierre and 
Ridelle, it was agreed that they should set for- 
ward without the Indians; and if nothing were 
heard from them at the expiration of seven days, 
the warriors might take the trail and follow. In 


Now my 
Let. 


‘this way, being well mounted, they might over- 


take them in season to be of much use. Matters 
being thus arranged to the satisfaction of all 
parties, they took leave of their kind friends; 


| the renegade set them across the river in the 


birchen canoe, and they started on the trail with 
a determined zeal no obstacle could daunt. 


80 


‘‘Itis as I had expected,’’? observed the 
Rover; ‘‘the trail tends towards the Sabine 
river, and the country of the far-famed Caman- 
ches. I perceive that there is much danger and 
hardship before us. Not only shall we be ob- 
liged to contend with the subtle devices of 
Lesage, but to dare the vengeance of the most 
formidable of the red nations.”’ 

‘‘T am willing to dare dangers ten times as 
imminent,’’ returned Moran, firmly. 
resolved to penetrate to the heart of’ the ene- 
mies’ country in defence of innocence and 
beauty. . I shudder to think of the sufferings of 
the poor girls. I cannot restrain my impatience.’’ 

‘* Here is something,’’ said Louis Ridelle to 
Henri, ‘‘ which I found beneath the cypress ; 
but I forgot to mention it before. It has been 
worn upon the-dainty arm of one whose name I 
need not pronounce.”’ 

‘* Helen’s bracelet !’? exclaimed the Rover. 
‘Give it to me, friend Ridelle. I will wear it 
next to my heart until she is again restored to 
liberty.” 

Henri pressed the golden band to his lips, 
and then placed it carefully in his bosom. 

‘* And here is something,”’ observed Pierre, 
picking a small glove from the ground, ‘‘ which 
you will recognize, Monsieur Ridelle. It has 
been worn upon the dear hand of Adelaide, 
and [ solemnly protest that it shall never leave 
my possession until I restore it to its owner.”’ 

‘* With allies like you, I can scarcely fail to 
recover my lost darling,”’ said Louis. 

The trail being fresh the foresters had little 
or no difficulty in following it. When the 
shadows of night fell again, they were many 
miles from New Orleans, in the boundless wil- 
derness, known but little save to Indian feet. 

‘¢ Tam an old forester,’’ remarked the father 
of Adelaide, ‘‘and my better judgment tells 
me that we must halt and rest. If we exert 
ourselves too much to-day, we shall be less able 
to discharge the duties of to-morrow. We must 

t forget that a long journey is before us, and 
Fie is a task that cannot be accomplished 
in twenty-four hours.” 

«You are right,” replied Pierre, “though I 


‘“‘T am 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


feel.as if my limbs would never tire, and my 
strength never fail. But reason admonishes me 
that we must act like men, and not liké chil- 
dren. JI will go and shoot a deer while you 
kindle a fire.”’ 

The Rover and Ridelle had soon gathered a 
pile of dry fagots. The former drew the bail 
from one barrel of his rifle, and ignited the 
combustible material by burning some powder 
in the lock. The pile was soon in a blaze, and 
the bright flames went hissing and darting up 
into the skies. At that time game abounded 
in every part of the country, for the flowing 
stream of civilization had not then turned its 
powerful current in that direction. 

Before the expiration of half an hour, the 
hunter had returned with the most delicate por- 
tions of a fat buck upon his shoulders. It was 
roasted at the roaring fire, and eaten in silence 
—as a duty, not as a pleasure. 

‘‘ Being the oldest of the party,’’ said 
Ridelle, ‘‘ though perhaps not the wisest and 
most experienced, I hope to be pardoned for 
making a few suggestions for the general safety, 
and for the success of our undertaking., I 
think it advisable that one of us should ever be 
on the watch while the other two sleep. It 
seems to me that we should commit a great and 
fatal error if we all slept at once.’ 

‘‘ Your advice is timely, excellent,’ replied 
the Rover. ‘‘I feel that we must indeed ex- 
ercise a ceaseless vigilance—a sleepless watch- 
fulness, in thus penetrating to the heart of an 
enemy’s country.” . 

After some further conversation upon the 
subject, it was unanimously resolved that they 
should watch by turns, during the night, until 
their undertaking was brought to a successful 
or an unsuccessful close. Henri and Pierre in- 
sisted upon discharging this necessary duty 
unassisted ; but to this proposition Ridelle would 
by no means agree. 

These preliminaries being satisfactorily ar- . 
ranged, Ridelle and Pierre laid down in their 
blankets. The White Rover, withdrawing a 
few paces from the fire, with his rifle in his hand 
kept tireless watch over his companions. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HE UNKNOWN DISINTERESTED 


Wrru the consent of the reader, we will now 
follow the fortunes of the captive maidens. 

It was the night of the third day of their 
weary pilgrimage towards the country of the 
Camanches. The mesdemoiselles were alone in 
a small lodge, which had been prepared for them 
nightly, while the Indians kept watch without. 

‘ Tt seems strange to me,”’ said Helen, ‘‘ that 
we have been treated with so little rigor during 
our captivity. The savages are not wont to ex- 
hibit sc much humanity. We have been per- 
mitted to rest for the greater portion of two 
nights. A lodge has been erected for us, and 
we have had the satisfaction of being entirely 
alone during the time allowed us for sleep. Now 
there is certainly something unaccountable in 
all this.”’ 

“T have thought of the subject more than 
once,”’ replied Adelaide, ‘‘and it still remains 
unexplained.”’ 

‘* Would it be unreasonable to suppose that 
Lesage had something to do with this transac- 
tion ?”’ asked Helen, seriously. 

‘You reiterate my own thoughts, Helen,” 
returned Adelaide. 


‘* Perhaps I wrong the 


HERO'S OFFER OF ASSISTANGE. | 


captain, but it does seem to me that my suspici- 
ons are not without foundation. It is very cer- 
tain that Henri and Pierre have had no agency 
in our misfortunes.” 

“T have not thought ill of them for a mo- 
ment,’’ responded Helen. | 

‘Our treatment is far too gentle,’ resumed 
Adelaide, ‘‘ to correspond with my ideas of In- 
dian character. I fear that they are but the 
agents of other minds.”’ 

“Then may we shudder af the fate before 
us,” said Mademoiselle Heley ‘‘ Savages are 
sometimes moved to mercy, bft there are those. 
who show none.” 

Both of the mesdemoisellé paused, and were 
occupied with their own glomy thoughts. 

Some deerskins, sewed pgether with thongs, 
hung up before the entrang to the lodge. They 
were put gently aside af that moment, and a 
painted visage became vifble. While with his 
left hand the intruder #ld aside the skins, he 
motioned them to silen¢ with his right. The 
girls drew back in alarnf The intruder stepped 
into the lodge, and th¢skins fell back again. 

“‘Do not be alarmd,’’ He said, in a whisper, 








82 THE WHITE ROVER. 


and in the purest French. ‘‘ I am your friend 
—TI have come to save you, or perish in the at- 
tempt.” 

‘Tf you have indeed come to save us, we owe 
you a deep debt of gratitude,” said Helen. 

‘* Hush, mademoiselle !’’ continued the stran- 
ger. ‘A single word spoken above a whisper 
may cost me my life. The red fiends are sleep- 
ing on all sides of us. I have literally stepped 

over their bodies for the purpose of speaking a 
single word to you. Be discreet, mesdemoiselles, 
I entreat of you.” 

The interior~of the lodge was quite dark. 
The stranger’s face could not be distinctly seen, 
and it was with difficulty that his low-whispered 
words could be heard and understood. But 
when he spoke of the danger he had incurred 
for their sakes, and expressed a determination to 

save them, they began to feel that a ray of light 
had at length fallen upon their darkened way. 

The stranger drew nearer, and laid his finger 
gently, yet warningly, upon Adelaide’s arm, 
and resumed, in the same suppressed whispers : 

‘« T have hovered near you for two days—wit- 
nessed. your sufferings—your danger—your he- 
roic fortitude, and have sworn to save you. 
But your savage captors are continually on the 
alert. Ihave watched daily and nightly for an 
opportunity\to speak to you—to bid you not 
despair—but to bear up yet a little longer under 
your sufferings, while I can plan and effect your 
escape. To-night—in this disguise, in order not 
to excite immeliate suspicions, providing I 
should be seen—I have braved all the peril of 
the step, for the purpose of breathing to you, 
dear mesdemoiseles, a word of hope. I have 
watched until youreaptors slept, and have step- 
ped over their sleepig forms to enter this lod ge.” 

‘« A thousand heatfelt thanks,” said Helen. 
« And let me ask if you can tell us the object 
which the Indians hye in view, and what our 

fate is likely to be, prciding we do not escape ?”’ 

The stranger sighed 

‘“Do not ask me, air maidens. My soul 
turns instinctively and ‘ith horror from the con- 
templation of that subjec.”’ 

“Tf you know or cai form any reasonable 


conjectures upon the subject, I implore you to 
speak unreservedly,’’ replied Helen. 

‘It would seem,’”’ whispered the stranger, 
that some of the French settlers at Natchito- 
ches have stolen two Indian maidens of uncom- 
mon beauty, and treated them with great indig- 
nity. I will not shock your ears with the details 
of the brutal outrage ; but suffice it that when 
after the lapse of a few weeks, one of the girls 
escaped, and presented herself, shamed and de- 
graded, before her people, and related the story 
of her humiliation, the Camanches vowed ven- 
geance upon the French. After knowing these 


facts, you may justly suppose that your capture . 


is an act of retaliation.”’ 

‘‘The saints preserve us from such a fate 1” 
exclaimed Helen, with a shudder of horror. 

‘‘Most fervently I respond to the prayer,”’ 
continued the intrepid stranger. ‘‘ As far as I 
am concerned, I need no further incentive to 
action than that inspired by your sufferings, 
your youth, beauty, and -heroism.”’ 

‘‘ But could you not aid us more effectually 
by returning to New Orleans? You would 
have only to repeat the story of our captivity in 
order to. raise the means of our deliverance. 
The governor would put you at the head of five 
hundred men, if need be, to follow us into the 


Indian country ; men who would fight bravely, 


nor fear hardship.” 

‘* You forget, fuir mademoiselle,’’ rejoined the 
unknown, ‘‘ that the Camanches are as numerous 
as the leaves upon the trees. They can bring 
five thousand, warriors into the field, yea, more 
than that number. What then would a few sol- 
diers, unacquainted with wood-craft, do in the 
centre of such a powerful nation? Reflect, mad- 
emoiselle.”’ 

‘‘ There is much reason in your statements, I 
confess, monsieur,”” replied Helen. | 

‘‘ Your only hope of rescue,”’ resumed the un- 
known, ‘‘ must be placed in the daring and cun- 


| ning of some practised woodsman, who ean fol- 


low a trail, and is perfectly conversant with In- 
dian habits.’ Cunning can effect more for you 
than strength ; yes, more than the governor’s 
whole army. One thing more I must speak of 


o_o 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


in connection with this subject. To-night I saw 
the Indians preparing buffalo skins to wrap 
about the horses’ feet to render the trail imper- 
ceptible, and baffle pursuit. With the precau- 
tions which they will undoubtedly take, it will 
defy the ingenuity of the keenest woodsman to 
trace you further. Were I to go back to New 
Orleans, even I, experienced as E am in Indian 
arts, might fail to follow you further than here. 
Remember that daily and nightly, during your 
weary pilgrimage, there is one friendly heart 
near you, laying plans for your deliverance. I 
shall follow you untiringly, and rely upon it, I 
will leave a trail that others can follow, and that 
your friends will not fail to discover. So you 
see, mesdemoiselles, that I shall be able to serve 
you in some way. ButI tarry toolong. I will 
attempt to visit you to-morrow night in this 
manner, when we will try and devise some means 
. for your escape. Hark! I thought I heard an 
Indian stirring without. This interview has al- 
ready been protracted te a dangerous length. 
Adieu—fair captive—adieu.”’ 

Helen followed him mechanically to the door 
of the lodge, raised the skins and looked out 
after him, and saw him glide along with breath- 
less silence. The unconscious figures of several 
Camanches were asleep upon the grounds in front 
of the lodge. She saw him pause, look cau- 
tiously around upon the sleepers, and then actu- 
ally step over their bodies and walk silently and 
swiftly away. His person was soon hidden from 
view by the trees. Helen still gazed after him, 
while her heart was agitated by various emo- 
tions; but she saw only the wild-wood scenery, 
the long, sombre shadows of the trees, the pale 
moon, the twinkling stars, the blue skies, and 
the sleeping figures. 

She let the skins fall back to their place, and 
stole back to the side of Adelaide, who had not 
moved from her seat. 

‘What are you thinking of? Why so gloomy 
and silent ?’’ asked Helen, embracing her com- 
panion, tenderly. 

‘‘T am thinking of many,*many things, sweet 
friend, and I scarcely know what makes me so 


sad. Have you forgotten the stranger’s story of 


the Indian maidens ?”’ said Adelaide, in reply. 


83 


' Helen was silent, but her fair petson was con- 
vulsed with horror; and her companion was 
conscious of the nervous tremors that shook her 
frame at the mention of the Indian girls. 

‘‘Adelaide,”’ she said, recovering herself, ‘‘why 
is not this the hour of escape! The savages are 
sleeping soundly. No watchful eyes save our 
Heavenly Father’s are upon us. Why can we 
not leave this lodge and glide cautiously away 
in the deep, wild forest, even as that stranger 
has done? What more favorable opportunity . 
than this ?”’ 

‘* Your words are reasonable. 
replied Adelaide, arising hastily. 

‘* A singular thought occurs to me, Adelaide ! 
Why did not this generous, self:sacrificing, and 
fearless stranger urge us to fly with him imme- 
diately, and not have waited for a more favor- 
able opportunity? Does this not strike you as 
being very extraordinary ?” 

‘* It does ; but perhaps he waits for some friends 
to join him, or has some more safe and feasible 
plan of escape in his mind,’’ answered Mademoi- 
selle Adelaide. 

‘The explanation you offer is plausible, but 
does not wholly satisfy me. Dear friend, shall 
we indeed attempt to escape while our captors 
are sleeping ?”’ said Helen. : 

Adelaide put aside the deerskins and, looked 
anxiously forth. The red men were still locked 
in slumber. 

“I think we might venture to try,’’ she replied, 
stepping back to the side of Helen. — ‘‘ We can 
but fail, and I know we cannot render our con- 
dition more deplorable My mind is full of 
vague and fearful suspicions, also, that I have 
not yet expressed. I feel more than ever anx- 
ious to escape from theje savage beings, if it be 
only to perish in the wilderness, of hunger, and 
thirst, and weariness. Is not any death prefer- 
able to that fate which is in reserve for us. They 
may follow us, it is true; but we are light of foot, 
and we can fly along without scarcely bending 
down the grass, or disturbing the leaves. And 
then we can take precautions that will defy them 
to trace a trail so faint as that we will leave, in 
our flight. We will seek out the most impassable 


Let us fly,”’ 


84 


places. We will pursue our way along the ranges 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


would be that we should be more closely watched, 


of hills, where the soil is hard and unyielding | and perhaps bound at night ; a precaution which 


to steps like ours. We will not break a twig 
from the smallest bush ; we will not roll a stone 
from its place ; we will not displace the moss 
upon the knolls, nor the sticks that he on the 
ground. In flying from a fate so dreadful, we 
shall leave a way as trackless as the flight of the 
birds through the air.” — 

‘«‘ Even so, Adelaide. God will not abandon 
us in the hour of trial,”’ responded Helen. ‘‘ He 
will strengthen our limbs when they falter. He 
- will fortify our hearts with courage when about 
to despair. He will feed us when we are hungry, 
and give us water when we are sinking with 
thirst. He clothes the lilies; He cares for the 
birds; He watches over the innocent. I am 
ready. Let us walk forth softly as shadows, and 
if they wake not, there remains for us a chance 
for liberty.”’ 

‘“¢ How I tremble,’’ said Adelaide. ‘* My 
heart beats like a bird trying to escape from his 


cage. Stop an instant—let me recover myself 
alittle. NowTIam calm. Lift the skins once 
more. Are they sleeping yet?” 


‘One has partly arisen,”’ whispered Helen, 
trembling with excitement. ‘‘He yawns and 
sinks back again. The blessed virgin be praised ! 
He relapses into sleep. Let me collect myself 
a little. Come, my dear Adelaide—step softly 
—hbreathe gently—be courageous--bear yourself 
firmly—now—now !”’ | 

Helen had lifted the deerskins that covered 
the lodge door, and made one timid step for- 
ward, when one of the Camanche warriors turned 


over, moaned, uttered some incoherent words,- 


arose upon his elbow, and finally to a sitting 
posture. The captives#iretreated precipitately 
into the lodge, and fell weeping into each other’s 
arms, with emotions of bitter disappointment no 
pen can describe. In a short time Adelaide 
looked cautiously forth again. The savage had 
not resumed the recumbent position, but was 
still sitting upright. 

‘‘We must abandon the attempt for to-night,”’ 
said our heroine, witha sigh. ‘‘ It were not best 
to make an abortive trial, for the consequences 


would preclude the possibility of a future attempt. 

When the first keen pangs of disappointment 
had passed (for the pangs of baffled hope are 
indeed poignant), Helen strove by every effort 
in her power to appear outwardly calm, in order 
to revive the sinking spirits of her compan- 
ion. She wiped away her tears, and tried to 
speak cheerfully of the future, adding, in con- 
clusion, that the intrepid stranger who had visited 
them at the risk of his life, might ultimately 
effect their liberation. 

‘*T do not wish,” replied Mademoiselle Ade- 
laide, ‘‘to give you needless cause of fear, but 
[ will tell you that I have little confidence in 
this stranger. Possibly it is an act of cruelty 
to make such a statement, but I am compelled 
by my anxiety to speak my thoughts freely.— 


| Had I full confidence in this unknown, I should 


not have been so eager to escape from our thral- 
dom. He spoke in whispers, yet 1 am well 
assured that I have heard his voice somewhere, 
but where, I cannot now remember.’’ 

‘‘ Let us not wrong him, my friend, but ob- 
serve him well, if another opportunity should 
present. There were times while he was speak- 
ing when his voice seemed familiar, even to me. 
[ shall try to think of him as a friend, for he 
certainly spoke feelingly, and with apparent sin- 
cerity,”” answeréd our heroine. - 

‘‘ But there are several things to be explained 
in relation to him,’’ resumed Adelaide. ‘‘ How 
did he arrive at a knowledge of our misfortunes ? 
Why does he feel such an interest in unknown 
maidens, that he should expose hig life to save 
them? <A lover, a father, or a brother might 
have ventured among the savages to rescue a 
beloved object ; but, believe me, very few stran- 
gers would do so. I doubt whether this has not 
all been preconcerted, and this hero comes by 
previous agreement.”’ ! 

“OQ, Adelaide!’ exclaimed Helen, ‘‘ I am 
unwilling to believe that such depravity exists. 
Let us not think of it. Try and sleep, that we 
may be ready for any opportunity that may be 
presented for escape.”’ 


CHAPTER XVII. 


JOURNEY RESUMED—-THE UNKNOWN 


ONCE MORE, NOW BETTER KNOWN. 


THE captives laid their weary limbs upon the | dress, he slid down nearly under his horse’s 


rude couch prepared for them by their captors, 
and strove to compose their minds to sleep 
Just as they had sunk into an unquiet slum- 
ber, they were aroused by the movements of the 
Camanches preparing to resume their wander- 
ings. The most delicate portions of the buf- 
falo, well roasted, were set before them, of 
which they partook sparingly. 
‘«‘ The Indians seem to be very busy. What 
are ‘they doing?’ asked Helen. 
‘They are wraping portions of buffalo skin 
upon the horses’ feet, in the manner predicted 
by the unknown,” returned Adelaide. 
__ An ingenious device. Let us exert ourselves 
more than ever to leave some signs to indicate 
whither our wanderings tend. I will tear my 
handkerchief into small pieces, and watch for 
opportunities to drop them as we ride forward,”’ 
said Helen. 

~The maidens were soon ordered to mount. 
The party moved on, but in a different order— 
in single file—the captives occupying the cen- 
tre of the cavaleade. Both watched with much 
interest to observe the effect of the new precau- 
tion which had been taken, viz: that of wrap- 
ping the horses’ hoofs in buffalo skins. They 
remarked with sorrow that the experiment sub- 
served well the purpose of their captors, as 
they now travelled over the firmest ground they 
could find, and left but faint traces to mark the 
way they had passed over. 

Helen succeeded in dropping several pieces of 
her handkerchief without being noticed. At 
length the quick eyes of one of Tike Camanches 
detected the design. With’ true Indian ad- 

6 


flanks, and picked up the piece which Helen 
had dropped, without dismounting. He shook 
his head sternly, and threatened her with death 
if she repeated the offence. 

Whether this menace was seriously made, or 
not, it terrified the maidens not a little, and 
they desisted from any further attempts of that 
kind at that time. 

They did not journey so rapidly as on the 
previous days, on account of the extraordinary 
precautions which they were continually observ- 
ing to baffle pursuit. On one occasion, they 
travelled several miles in the bed of a brook, 
the bottom of which was covered with small 
stones, where, of course, no trace of a horse 
track could be left. The hearts of the unfor- 
tunate girls grew hopeless and despairing when 
they beheld such unusual caution. They gazed 
into each other’s faces in mute and wordless 
grief. It was some relief to find themselves 
alone again when they had encamped for the 
night. Though both felt the need of rest, 
neither could sleep. Innumerable wild con- 
jectures and undefinable fears kept them wakefal. 
Did they lose their consciousness for a single 
instant, some dreadful phantom suddenly 
arose before them and broke the momentary 
spell. Though they were in doubt concerning 
the stranger, they could not banish the fright- 
fal tale he had told them gig! Lie? Tn- 
dian maidens. 

If that unpleasant subject left their minds, it 
was to give place to others quite as dreadful., 
Would the stranger visit them again that night ? 
they asked over and over again. 


= 


86 


The eyes of both were turned towards the 
entrance of the lodge; the deerskins were 
thrust aside gently as on the previous night ; and 
the face of the unknown was revealed. The 
moon shone brightly, and her silver beams fell 
upon his features. During the moment of hes- 
itation which followed, both the captives scanned 
his face with intense eagerness, and recognized 
the features of Hubert, the king’s commissary. 

But this strange discovery produced different 
emotions in the bosoms of the mesdemoiselles. 
Adelaide could with difficulty repress a cry of 


horror, while Helen experienced equal difficulty 


in repressing a cry of joy. ° 

‘Tf you have recognized him,’’ whispered 
Adelaide, ‘‘ keep the secret to yourself.”’ 

The king’s commissary was in the lodge. 

‘* Mesdemoiselles,”’ he whispered, .‘‘ gentle 
mesdemoiselles, awake ; up, and let us away ; 
there is not a moment to be lost!’ 

Helen arose quickly from the recumbent posi- 
tion ; but Adelaide with less alacrity. 

‘* What do you say ?”’ asked our heroine. 

_ ‘©The moment of escape has come—up-—hur- 
ry; let us fly.”’ 

‘‘ But how?’ asked Adelaide, in a faint and 
almost inaudible whisper. 

‘The Camanches are buried in deepest 
slumbers. We will glide from the lodge like 
spectres of the night—silently, cautiously, 
breathlessly, and, thank God, hopefully !’’ re- 
plied Hubert. 

‘“No! no! let us stay !”’ whispered, Adelaide 
in Helen’s ear ; but Helen was too much ex- 
cited by the oacaseit of immediate escape to 
fally comprehend her meaning; nor did she 
understand her when she bade her not divulge 
the secret, if she had recognized the stranger. 

She had seen the commissary many times 
with his excellency, the governor; but she 
knew nothing of his character, and now regard- 
ed him as the generous friend which he profess- 
ed to be. 

‘* We are ready to go,’’ said Helen. ‘‘ Come, 
Adelaide, give me your hand—-don’t tremble so— 
be firm, and the danger will soon be passed.’’ 

‘« Silently, silently, mesdemoiselles ; follow 


9 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


me—step lightly,” 
door of the lodge. 

Helen had grasped Adelaide’s hand and now 
drew her along after the commissary. 

‘‘ Back, girls! back!’ whispered the latter, 
retreating with alarming precipitation to the ex- 
treme part of the lodge. 

‘Go and look cautiously out,’’ said the com- 
missary to Helen, apparently much agitated. 

Our fair heroine obeyed, and perceived to her 
horror that one of the savages had arisen from 
the ground, and was heaping together the de- 
caying brands. of the fire. She repeated the 
unwelcome intelligence to Hubert, who seemed 
the picture of dismay. : 

‘* Discovery, to me, would be certain death,”’ 
he said ; ‘‘ but the consciousness that I should 
perish in the cause of youth and beauty, would 
serve to soften down the last moments of life, 
and shed a sweet and heavenly light on the 
opening scenes of the world to. come. Be good 
enough to look again, mademoiselle.”” _ 

When our heroine looked forth again, the 
fire, once more revived by the addition of fresh 
fuel, was sending up a bright flame. The In- 
dian produced his pipe, refilled it slowly, lit it, 
and commenced smoking. Helen watched his 
movements with a feeling of anxiety and impa- 
tience, to be appreciated only by those in a simi- 
lar situation. 

The commissary grasped the trembling hand 
of Adelaide, and assured her that all might yet 
be well—that he might possibly yet be spared 
to be instrumental in their liberation. But she 
withdrew her hand and trembled more violently. 

Helen maintained her position near the door. 
The Camanche, reclining upon his elbow, with 
his feet thrust to the fire, watched the stars, and 
smoked his pipe calmly. His fixed and medi- 
tative gaze seemed to indicate that he was think: 
ing of the happy hunting grounds and the 
shadowy people who live there and pursue 
shadowy game. 

The night was beautifully serene. The moon 
never appeared to move more softly through 
the pathless skies, or to look more placidly down 
upon the earth. The stars had caught the same 


said Hubert, opening the 


a THE WHITE ROVER. 


delightfal mood, and. shed their Quiet | beauty 
upon the night. No winds set the verdant leaves 
in motion, or. sighed through’ the branches of 
the pine and sycamore. 

‘* How sweet to be at liberty, and with Henri, 
at such an. hour as this,’’ thought Helen. The 
reflection was but natural, yet by contrast it 
served to heighten her present dreariness. 

‘Most anxiously did she watch the savage, 
fearing lest he should possibly arise, approach 
the lodge and look in, when the life of the com- 
missary would instantly be sacrificed. She ap- 
prehended also that others might awaken and 
follow his example, and so cut off all hope of 
Hubert and escape. For three quarters of an 
hour the Camanche enjoyed his pipe, which 
seemed an age to Helen. At length the threw 
out the puffs of smoke with less frequency, and 
with degreasing interest. The fire died away 
in the bowl of his pipe, and finally went quite 

ut ; the savage closed his eyes, began to nod 
-—roused up—nodded again—the pipe dropped 
from his mouth, and he. fell back upon the 
earth completely overpowered by sleep. 

Helen breathed more freely—watched him a 
moment longer, and then reported to the com- 
missary. 

‘“«'The favorable hour has passed,” sighed 
Hubert. ‘‘ Indians never sleep soundly after 
this time. Iam forced, by dire necessity, to 
leave you till a more propitious moment. I 
doubt even whether I can depart without rais- 
ing analarm. And if I should never see you 
again—that is, should aught unfortunate befall 
me this night—remember that I have done my 
best to save you; Lask no more than this.— 
Once more, sweet mesdemoiselles, adieu.”’ 
The commissary looked cautiously out into 
the open air—waved his Hand, and the next 
moment the captives were alone. 

Suddenly” there was a deafening cry without. 
Helen sprang to the entrance of the lodge and 
looked after the commissary. She saw him run- 
ning swiftly, pursued by two tall savages ; then 
“she heard the report of fire-arms, saw Hubert 
fall, recover his feet and disappear in the forest, 
still followed by the Camanches. 


87 


‘‘Q,; Adelaide!’ shrieked Helen, “he is 
wounded—he is down—no, he is up again—he 
rises, is lost to view in the woods !”’ 

‘Give yourself no uneasiness on his ac- 


count,’’ cried Adelaide, drawing Helen into 


the lodge. 
‘‘ What if he should be slain in attempting to 
save us!” exclaimed Helen. 


‘Be calm, dear Helen. Monsieur Hubert is 
a villain,” said Adelaide, indignantly. 

‘“No!’’ said Helen, gazing into the pale face 
of her friend in unutterable astonishment. 

“‘ He is the friend and companion of Lesage 
—the cause of all our misfortunes,” replied 
Adelaide. ‘ 

‘QO, that is cruel, Adelaide!” Saale stoi 
Helen. 

“Cruel indeed! My suffdtings for the last 
hour you cannot imagine. JDisgust, indigna- 
tion and fear have held me in their power by 
turns during his stay. I thought that time had 
ceased to go onward, and that he would never 
leave us,’ added Adelaide. 

‘‘ Has he ever spoken to you, Adelaide ‘”’ 
asked Helen, much perplexed. 

‘« Often, often! He has praised my beauty— 
affirmed that he loved me—that he could not 
exist without me.”’ 

«* And you—”’ 

‘* Rejected him with contempt, for I ee his 
purpose well.’’ 

‘What then, Adelaide ?”’ 

‘‘He had the meanness and audacity to 
threaten.”’ 

“The friend of Lesage! Just Heaven! can 
this be true?’ excialmed Helen. 

‘True as inspiration itself,” replied Ade- 
laide, firmly. ‘‘ I warned you, Helen, while he 
was here.” 

‘‘T know you did, and I could not well com- 
prehend your meaning. But the Indians fired 
at him ; how is that ?”’ asked our heroine. 

‘¢ All preconcerted, no doubt, Helen. The 
Indians are evidently in his employ, and he did 
not intend that we should escape. He wishes 
to play the daring and generous hero, in order 


| to make an impression in his favor.’’ 


<< 
‘pr 


J 


ae 


88 


‘* Perhaps you are right,’’ responded Helen. 
‘*T now remember of having seen him with 
Lesage on several occasions ; and in fact on the 
day of our abduction. The truth dawns upon 
me, Adelaide; I see the black villany of the 
whole plot.” 

After some further conversation in relation to 
their unhappy situation, the captives completely 
exhausted, both in body and mind, sank into a 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


profound sleep, and obtained the most refresh- 
ing rest they experienced during their captivity. 
They resumed their journey on the following 
day in the same manner, and with the same 
precautions that had marked the preceding 
one. But Hubert did not make his appearance. 
on the ensuing night; neither did he 6n the 
night after; which circumstance surprised the 
captives not a little. 


BPP IDOL LIF POP PIL IOP FOF POF IDS OLS FOI I 


CHAPTER XVUI. 


THE 


For three days the foresters followed the trail 
without much difficulty ; but on the fourth they 
found themselves bafHled. 

‘“‘ A lodge was evidently erected here,”’ re- 
marked the Rover. ‘‘ By scraping away the 
leaves carefully, with my hand, I find where the 
lodge-poles were driven down.”’ 

‘« Tt is a singular instance of humanity in the 
Camanches to allow them the favor of a lodge,”’ 
said Pierre. 

‘*T think the trail tends in this direction,’’ 
olgerved Ridelle, as he inspected the ground 
closely. ‘‘I find here some grass bent down, 
and the ground slightly indented by horses’ 
feet. Here it goes.”’ 

‘Where ?”’ asked Pierre. 

‘“‘T have lost it again,” answered Ridelle. 

‘They have covered their horses’ feet with 
skins,’ said the Rover. 

Each of the party, with his face close to the 
ground, and sometimes upon their knees, ap- 
plied themselves earnestly to the task of finding 
the trail. For two hours they were at fault. 
They at length agreed to separate and go for- 
ward in such directions as they felt disposed to 
take, only following the general course towards 
the country of the Camanches. When one, 
more fortunate than his companions, found the 
trail, he should immediately make the fact 


TRAIL. 


known to the others, as they were not to put a 
great distance between each other. Having 
come to this mutual understanding, they pro- 
ceeded to act in accordance with the same. 

In a few minutes our hero was alone. Well 
acquainted with Indian stratagems and habits, 
he directed his footsteps toward a long ridge of 
low hills on his right. He had gone forward 
a short time after reaching the highlands, when 
to his joy he discovered a small object fluttering 
upon the ground. He stooped and secured it. 
It proved, as the reader has already anticipated, 
a portion of Helen’s handkerchief, which she 
had dropped to guide the steps of those who 
might attempt her rescue. It was of the finest 
muslin, and the Rover would “have easily re- 
cognized it perhaps, even had he not seen the 
initials of the owner’s name upon it. 

We hope the indulgent reader will not be 
disposed to smile, when we assert that Henri 
pressed the precious fragment to his lips ; for it 
was indeed precious to him, not only on account 
of its having been in the possession of the 
maiden dearest to his heart, but because it would 
serve to direct his footsteps towards her. 

While the Rover stood gazing at the bit of 
stuff, he heard a sound near him, and upon 
looking up, beheld, greatly to his astonishment, 
Red-Shoe, the Chickasaw chief. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


89 


‘‘ Do my eyes deceive me ?”’ exclaimed Henri. | was at a loss to know ; nor was he fully satisfied 


‘* You see me, my white brother,’’ said Red 
Shoe, laconically. 

‘*And why have you followed us?’’ asked 
the Rover. al 

‘‘T saw the daughter of the Sun,”’ replied the 
chief. ‘‘She told me what had happened to the 
pale maidens, and how the White Rover was in 
trouble, by means of Chef Menteur. I tightened 
my belt, took my rifle, and followed the trail.” 

‘‘Generous chieftain! you are indeed my 
friend. I feel that I can never repay this noble 
disinterestedness,’’ exclaimed Henri. ‘‘ And 
what of the war with the Choctaws ?’’ he added, 

immediately. 
There will be no fighting with them at pres- 
ent. We shall be able to punish Chef Menteur 
before war breaks out with the Choctaws,’’ re- 
plied Red-Shoe. 

Henri now called loudly to his companions. 
They soon found him, much pleased to learn that 
their party had been strengthened by the addi- 
tion of such a noble ally. By the aid of Red- 
Shoe they went forward much more rapidly, for 
he was very acute in discerning Indian signs. 
They were enabled to discover the precise spot 
where they took to the bed of the brook, and 


the place where they left it; and several frag- 


ments of the handkerchief which had been 
dropped by the captives, were also found. 

The day passed without any further incident 
worthy of note. At night they encamped as 
usual. Not feeling inclined to. sleep, Henri left 
his comrades, and walking some fifty rods from 
the encampment, seated himself upon the trunk 
of a fallen tree, upon the summit of a small hill. 
With so many things to think of, he was soon 
lost in the mazes of his own thoughts. We need 
not tell the reader of what he thought, for he 
will arrive at that by a natural inference. It 
may well be supposed that at that time, the 
beauties of starlight and moonlight had but few 
attractions for the Rover. 

The sound of horses’ feet approaching at a 
leisure pace caused him to look anxiously around. 
A single horseman was advancing ; but whether 
he was a savage or a white man, Henri at first 


on this point until he was addressed. . 

‘“‘ A timely meeting,” said the horseman. 

‘* We have met before, and recently, if I re- 
member rightly,’’ replied Henri, much more 
surprised than when he had been joined by 
Red-Shoe. 

‘‘ Yes,’’ answered Boisbriant, dismounting. 
‘‘T am the same you refer to, doubtless. You 
are on the trail, I perceive. What luck 2?” 

‘‘ We have followed the trail but too literally 
—done nothing else—found nothing else,’’ re- 
plied the Rover. 

‘“‘ Ah, well—keep up good courage. Persé- 
verance accomplishes wonders, sometimes,”’ said 
Boisbriant. 

‘Tam greatly astonished at this meeting,”’ 
returned Henri. ‘‘ May I ask what brings you 
here ?” | 

‘* Certainly—my horse brought me,”’ rejoined 
Boisbriant. 

‘“‘ Very true,”’ said the Rover, with a smile. 
‘« May I presume to ask your object in allowing 
yourself to be brought here by your horse ?”’ 

‘“ A good, a commendable one, I hope, Mon- 
sieur Delcroix,”’ rejoined the secret agent. ‘I 
feel an interest in the fate of these maidens.— 
Not only do I confess a deep solicitude in regard 
to the fate of these captives, but also a strong 
desire to unmask as great a villain as ever walked 
upon the face of the wide earth. There are 
many other men’ that Lesage might deceive and 
evade, but me he can neither deceive nor evade. 
I sympathize with you, young man, in your 
sufferings.”’ 

‘Tam very, very grateful,’’ replied the Rover, 
impressively. 

‘“‘ You perceive, Delcroix, that the freshness 
of youth and the fire of early manhood with me 
have passed ; from these I have glided by gra- 
dations into the maturity of life. My hairs are 
not yet plentifully sprinkled with gray, but they 
should be, for I have suffered. Look at me, 
Henri. I have also felt the happiness of recip- 
rocated love. But many years have elapsed 
since [ last heard the voice of Irene.”’ 

‘« You were disappointed, then ?”’ asked Henri. 


90 


‘“‘Cruelly, sadly id Ge tea !? exclaimed 
Boisbriant. 

‘‘She was forced to wed another, I suppose,”’ 
remarked the Rover, much interested. 

‘No; it was not that. Irene became my wife 
—loving and beloved. Let me sit down here 
beside you, and I will tell you something about 
it; for the calm beauties of this night seem to 
recall it all to memory. Yes, I wedded the 
maiden of my choice —a fair, a noble, and sweet 
tempered girl. That was twenty years ago, and 
I was twenty years old on the day of our mar- 
I was not at that period rich, but pos- 
sessed of a competence. It was expensive living 
in Paris in the style I wished. In an evil mo- 
ment I accepted an office in the infant colony on 
the banks of the Mississippi, pleased with the 
thought that I should acquire a fortune for my 
wife and child. 

‘« A thousand idle tales were then sae in 
regard to the facility of amassing riches in this 
country, not one of which could be considered 
true, or ought to have been thus considered.— 
Like a silly fish I swallowed the gilded bait. 
Trene was delighted at the idea of visiting a new 
country, whose breezes were balm; whose sun: 
shine was glory ; whose forests were orange trees ; 
whose stones were gold ; whose sands were dia- 
monds ; whose springs were fountains of immor- 
tal youth. We planned cottages, mansions, 
summer-houses, arbors, grounds, gardens, and I 
know not what, to grace our imaginary paradise. 

‘“« My little daughter was a year old when we 
left the shores of France. After a short and 
pleasant passage we reached the New World. 
I saw the gaping mouth of a mud@y river, whose 
banks were overgrown with dank weeds, in which 
lay hidden, frightful monsters, who delighted to 
swallow men and women at a mouthful. They 
told me it was the Mississippi river, that watered 
the Eden I was seeking. I stared at the captain 
like one awakening from some pleasant dream ; 
he stroked his beard and smiled. 

‘« «Tt’s a sweet place,’ said the captain. 

‘<¢ Have you been here often?’ I asked. 

‘¢« Twice before,’ he answered. 

«What kind of monsters are those rolling 


riage. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


so lazily among those dank weeds in the mud 
yonder ?” 


_ *** Why, bless your heart, sir, wet are nothing 


but alligators !’ 

‘« «What do they subsist upon ?’ I asked. 

«They used to live upon Indians, but now 
they feed principally upon Frenchmen. They 
are not at all hard to suit. They'll take any- 
thing that comes along—pick up a little boy or 
girl now and then, or a full grown woman of any 
color ; or seize upon men while bathing. One 
large sized man makes just two bites.’ 

‘«* Indeed !” 

*** Just as I tell you, monsieur.’ 

“ «Thank you.’ 

‘<* Perfectly welcome.’ 

‘‘ By further conversation with the captain, I 
learned that the Indians were also greatly to be 
feared, as shocking murders were frequent in the’ 
colony. The spell of my delightful dream was 
broken. I felt sad at heart, and one of those 
horrible presentiments of coming evil crept 
through every fibre of my brain, and made me 
stagger with the dread of Solnenatnay I knew 
nothing about. 

‘* De Iberville, brother of the governor, and 
an old acquaintance, met me at Biloxi. He 
strove to infuse new life and courage into my 
heart, but it was easy to see that he felt sad 
himself. Something was evidently weighing 
heavily upon his spirits. Iberville was a noble 
fellow ; brave, generous, and high-souled ; but 
there was some singular mystery connected with 
his stay in the colony. It was.some love affair, 
which I could never fully fathom. I entered 
upon my duties with what zeal I could, under 
the circumstances. : 

‘‘Trene bore up finely under the shock which 
we had both received in relation to the new 
country. She even affected to be pleased with 
her condition ; but I knew better. One morn- 
ing I left my new home with Iberville, to visit 
a small party of emigrants, who had settled upon 
the Mississippi river. I kissed Irene and my 
little daughter gaily, telling them I should soon 
return. I observed that Irene looked paler than 
usual, and held my hand longer in hers than she 
was wont, when she said adieu.”’ 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


Boisbriant paused at this stage of his narrative, 
overcome by his emotions. 

‘* When I returned,’’ he resumed, ‘‘ I had no 
wife, no child, no home. I found my darling 
wife near the river’s bank, foully murdered by 
the Indians—and scalped—robbed of her long 
beautiful hair, of which I had been so proud. 
The body of my daughter could not be found 
but some of its clothes were discovered in the 
river, lodged among the weeds. Its fate was 
but too evident; it had been thrown into the 
water! My frantic grief I will not dwell upon. 
The eruelty of this blow I will leave wholly to 
your imagination. I felt like a crushed and 
broken-hearted man, and resolved to return to 
France. I shall not soon forget an incident 
which transpired previous to my putting this 
resolve into execution. It was a light, placid 
night like this. Iberville and myself were walk- 
ing together. 3 

«Did you ever have a presentiment?’ he 
asked, with a smile. 

“T replied that Thad one when I first saw 
the mouth of the Mississippi river. 

‘«*T have a presentiment now,’ said Iberville. 

««¢ And what is it?’ I asked. 

*** Death? he replied softly, and with an 
earnestness I shall never forget. 3 

‘<< T have observed that something unpleasant 
has been preying upon your rth for a long 
time,’ I added. 

‘<< Tt is so, my friend. My sorrow is 
which must perish with me,’ he replied mourn- 
fully. 

‘«*Tt is a love-secret, I presume,’ I replied 

“«T acknowledge it ; I will tell you this much 
I have a wife and child,’ he said 


a secret 


and no more: 
earnestly. 

«« «Where ?” I exclaimed. 
~ That T may not téll you. There are many 
and powerful reasons why they are not with me 
but'it was my destiny that this should be, and 
Thave submitted. Keep my secret, Boisbriant.’ 
I promised to do this. 

“*She’s a lovely girl, and is content to be 
my wife under any circumstances ; for bhe loves 


me,’ added Therville. 


91 


‘**And does de Bienville, your brother, know 
aught of this ?” I asked. 

‘* «Nothing definitely. He only knows that 
my affections are placed upon some object ; but 
who she is, and where she is, he does not know, 
and has too much delicacy to ask what he is 
quite sure [ do not wish him to know.’ 

‘*¢T can conceive of no reasons sufficiently 
powerful to induce you to keep the facts you 
have communicated a secret,’ I remarked. 

«My dear Boisbriant, there might possibly 
be many reasons for pursuing such a course. It 
might even be done to secure a fortune—a vast 
fortune—to make my child the inheritor of 
wealth, and a name, perhaps. Can you not con- 
ceive of something of that kind?” 

““« Certainly,’ I replied; ‘such things have 
happened more than once or twice. But a noble 
name your child will assuredly have, if it bear 
the name of Iberville.’ 

‘«« But a noble name without fortune is noth- 
ing worth, and serves only to bring its owner 
into contempt.’ 

‘« Tberville paused, and with folded arms gazed 
at the waters of the Mississippi. I heard the 
twang of a bow-string, and a low groan from 
Iberville. I looked towards him, and saw an 
Indian shaft deep buried in his bosom. He fell 
back into my arms—looked pleasantly into my 
face, despite the torture of his wound, smiled 
sweetly, and expired. And thus passed the 
noblest spirit that ever exerted an influence upon 
the fortunes of Louisiana. The news of his 
death cast a gloom over the colony, for his manly 
conduct from first to last had ‘endeared him to 
every one. I can even now recall the form of 
de Bienville, kneeling by that smiling corpse. 
I have seen many a stout heart shake with grief ; 
many a daring eye wet with tears; but I never 
saw grief like his, for they had loved like David 
and Jonathan, until the twain had become as 
the soul of one man.” 

Boisbriant ceased. 

“Speak on! speak on!’ exclaimed Henri. 

‘‘T went back to Paris, and after the lapse of 
a few years returned again to the colony, drawn 
back to the scene of my sufferings by some 


92 


strange impulse ; perchance I wished to be near 
the grave of Irene. I have done,” added Bois- 
briant, sadly. 

“* Your relation has interested me deeply,”’ 
said Henri. 

‘* No doubt ; true hearts always feel an interest 
in the unfortunate. And now, my brave lad, 
you shall hear something still more interesting ; 
for I perceive that your mind is in a calmer state 
' than usual,and you can hear me less impatiently.” 

‘Go on, if you please,” said the Rover. 

‘‘ What I have to communicate concerns the 
captive maidens, and Hubert, the king’s com- 
missary.”’ 

‘The commissary |’? exclaimed Henri. 

‘«T have discovered the important fact that 
he is even now with the captives.’ 

“‘ Ympossible !”’ cried the Rover. 

‘‘Notatall. [I willexplain. The commissary 
is the accomplice of Lesage. The motives which 
actuate him: refer wholly to Adelaide; while 
those which stimulate Lesage have reference to 
Helen. 'The Camanches are employed by both 
the scoundrels. Hubert follows them for the 
purpose of playing the hero. He has formed 
the noble resolution to aid the mesdemoiselles to 
escape from the Indians, and thus acquire their 
confidence. .He imagines that by taking this 
course, with Adelaide under his protection, filled 
with the idea that he is a daring and generous 
benefactor, he shall be able to. make an impres- 
sion on her haart and thus ultimately effect his 
base purpose.” 

«The villain !’’ said Henri. 

“ T have followed the party on horseback, and 
being well acquainted with the country of the 
Camanches, 1 overtook them on the second day 
of their journey, and have dogged them ever 
since. The commissary, dressed and mounted 
like an Indian, follows them at a safe distance, 
sometimes taking long detours to mislead those 
whom he has good reason to suppose will attempt 
_to follow. At night he has interviews with his 
Indian allies, and instructs them in the part 
they are to act.. He has twice stolen into the 
tent during the night time, in the character of a 
deliverer, ready to sell his life to save the fair 

Vaptives. 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


‘‘} have watched all these proceedings with 
feelings of indignation scarcely to be repressed 
and kept within bounds. Having learned all 
that could be of any avail, and being unable to 
cope with six Camanches and a white man, I 
have ridden back with hot haste to find you.— — 
When I found you here apparently so calm and 
thoughtful, it carried me back to other days. 
You made me think of Iberville on the night of 
his death, and I could not refrain from speaking 
to you of the past, before relating these matters. 
Nay, do not fret and fume so. Be patient. We 
are on the high road to success. We can scarcely 
fail to effect an object we so ardently desire to 
attain.” Bare 

“Do you not suppose,” asked Henri, as they 
arose to seek Pierre and Ridelle, “that Lesage 
is already on the way to join Hubert ?”’ 

‘‘T do. The rogues have met by this time ; 
but we will surprise them, my lad—surprise 
them !” | | 

‘« And punish such high-handed villany as it 
deserves. Let us not lose an instant, monsieur, 
but follow the scoundrels immediately. . I can- — 
not rest while such a scheme of consummate 
villany is being enacted. I desire nothing more 
earnestly than to stand face to face with that 
commissary. Hero indeed! If my hands were 
once upon him, he would never wish to play the 
heroic benefactor again during his life.’’ 

Boisbriant and Pierre Moran met like old 
friends. The strange news which the former 
had communicated to Henri, was now repeated. 
The hunter and Ridelle listened with fierce and 
scowling brows. 

‘‘ Lead the way,” said Moran, hail, ‘‘ lead 
the way, and we ll follow.” 

‘Tt is well spoken,”’ added Ridelle. ‘* Let 
us Bros forward to thwart this atrocious wicked- 
ness.’ 

“ Forward—forward—upon the aE rest 
—no sleep, until the maidens are free!” cried 
Henri. 

“Tam ready, good friends. This is the way, 
and may Heaven speed us !”’ said Boisbriant. \ 

With dark and threatening visages, and minds 
firmly fixed upon vengeance, the foresters fol- 
lowed Boisbriant. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A MEETING—THE ESCAPE, 


Suverat days had elapsed since the disap. 
pearance of the mademoiselles. The night had 
already set in. Two persons were sitting upon 
the west bank of the Sabine River. 

_ You have followed sooner than I had ex- 
pectéd, captain,”’ said one. 

‘‘T found it was necessary no time should be 
lost, Monsieur Huhert,’’ replied the captain. 
«The affair is creating quite an excitement at 
New Orleans ; for the girls are highly esteemed 
there. ‘‘ITam suspected, notwithstanding all 
our cunning. In fact I met that fire-eater, my 
evil genius, and he accused me of the abduction 
of the maidens, without stopping to mince mat- 
ters. lowe him another debt, and will be 
sure to pay him.” . 

‘« Did he do you any personal violence ?” 
asked Hubert. 

‘*T barely escaped with my life.” 

“Why did you not run him through with 
‘your sword, captain ?”’ . 

‘‘Mon Dieu! I attempted to, but be was 
more than a match for me with his tomahawk. 
- He broke my sword at the hilt, and then benev- 
olently spared my life for a greater punishment 
than that of being genteelly tomahawked !”’ 

« For which you thanked him.” | 

*« For which 1 fired my pistol at his head, 
Monsieur Hubert.” | 

‘« Did you hit him ?”’ 

‘Hit him? no! he was not born to be hit, 
but to live to be my ruin. The fates protect 
him, I believe. Now tell me how»you speed 


® 


with Adelaide. 


Have you played the hero 
with success ?”’ 

‘“‘Admirably, admirably, my boy! I have 
risked my precious life twice for the sweet mad- 
emoiselles——visited. them by moonlight—bade 
them hope—swore to save them, or die in the 
attempt—hinted at the danger I incurred for 
their pretty sakes—and of dying in a very 
happy and contented frame of mind while con- 
scious of such a high purpose. We attempted 
to fly—the Indians didn’t rest well—one got 
up—smoked pipe—looked at the stars and- 
moon—frightened us—girls trembled—gave 
myself up for lost—favorable hour passed—left 
them with melancholy forebodings—Indians 
were aroused—~pursved me—fired guns—fell— 
was supposed to be wounded—up and ran—and 
here I am alive yet.” 

“ Capital! grand! sublime ! go on, Hubert.’’ 

‘‘To-night I have fixed on as the happy 
period of their escape from Indian thraldom. 
The Camanches will sleep soundly as death 
itsel{—nothing but the last trumpet can wake 
them—I shall pray earnestly that Heaven will 
protect youth, innocence and beauty—grasp my 
short sword—be pale, but firm—lead the fair 
tremblers forth—walk over the savages as 
though they were logs of wood—gain the forest 
—hbreathe more freely—the girls pant with ex- 
citement-—you are near—take Helen—I take 
Adelaide—all right—nobody’s business—sweet 
mademoiselles—Ah ! Lesage !” 

‘Fair, but proud Helen, you shall yet be 


hake 


. bt 


‘ et 
94 THE WHITE ROVER. 9 
won !”’ exclaimed the captain, triumphantly —J| ‘It shall be my proud and happy privilege 


‘You scorned me once, yea, twice; but now, 
haughty beauty, the power is mine. And I 
shall crush and humiliate, both in one—the 
peerless Helen, the fire-eating Rover. Sacre 
Dieu! but will it not crush his proud spirit !’’ 

‘“We will pay back the scorn they have 
heaped upon us at different times,’’? added 
Hubert. ‘Dearest Adelaide—sweet charmer 
—I come, I come—a dainty piece indeed! But 
I am wild with impatience,”’ continued the ecom- 
missary, with a theatrical air. ‘‘’Tis time, 
captain. The moon rides high in the heayens— 
the hour has come. Now shall we reap our re- 
ward for all our dangers—and—and—rascali- 
ties,’ resumed Hubert. ‘‘ Await me here. In 
half an hour I will rejoin you with the charm- 
ing mademoiselles.”’ 

Helen and Adelaide stood beside the entrance 
of the lodge. 

‘*Do you think they are really sleeping ?”’ 
asked Helen. 

‘‘T certainly do. Their respiration is deep 
and regular, and they lie very quietly,’’ an- 
. swered the other. * 

‘* Are you still firm—shall we try?’’ con- 
tinued Helen. 

‘“‘T am firm, and we will try,” said Adelaide. 

‘Give me your hand, Adelaide—I am ready 
—let us both pass out at the same moment— 
softly—softly.”’ 

The two girls, tightly grasping each other’s 
hands, stole from the lodge. They stepped 
lightly among the sleeping braves, scarcely dar- 
ing to breathe, and trembling excessively. 
a moment they had passed the dangerous vicin- 
ity, and their fairy figures were moving rapidly 
through the forest. 

‘« We are out of sight of the lodge—we shall 
soon be far away,’’ said Helen. 

‘* Heaven be praised !’’ exclaimed Adelaide. 
“ Let me recover my breath a little. How my 
heart palpitates. Now we will run.” 

‘« This is indeed fortunate—blessed—provi- 
dential !’’ cried a voice. The maidens looked 
at each other in mute despair; for it was the 
commissary who had spoken. adil 


2 
Eg 
Lae 


immediately. 


In |, 





to conduct you to your friends, unfortunate 
maidens,’ he added. “There are horses near 
at hand. Others of your good friends have 
jained me ; and two of them I think you will 
not be displeased to see. This way—a few rods 
down towards the valley—hurry, mademoiselles 
—no time to lose—Indians don’t sleep sound— 
may wake up—follow—kill us all.”’ 

Taking Adelaide by the arm he gently urged 
her onward, and Helen followed, holding her by 
the hand she had not relinquished since she left 
the lodge. Hubert at length ceased to urge the 
captives onward. He stopped, and a man join- 
ed him instantly. The commissary pointed to 
Helen with a significant smile. 

‘Sweet Mademoiselle Helen!” exclaimed 
Lesage, seizing the hand.of our heroine. Helen 
shrieked with horror, and drew it from him, 


‘‘Tmagine, if you can,’ added ae, 
‘«the joy that I feel in knowing that I have as- 
sisted in your escape from a thraldom so dread- 
ful—so eruel—so hopeless, so—”’ 

‘« Cease to dissemble longer,” replied Helen, 
recovering her self-possession somewhat. ‘‘ Lay - 
off the mask, and show yourself the despicable 
villain that you are. And you, sir,” turning 
to thegommissary, ‘‘ can follow his example.— 
We know you for a vile hypocrite—a smooth- 
tongued ruffian—a mean-spirited coward—a 
double-dealing knave—a wretched impostor, 
unfit to breathe the air of heayen.”’ 

‘“A fair, beginning, truly,” said Hubert, 
abashed in spite of all his effrontery. | 
‘« Fair, indeed !’’ rejoined Lesage, contemp- 
tuously. ‘‘ Helen Lerowe,” he added, with a 
wicked smile of triumph upon his lips, ‘ the 
time when you could scorn and insult me is past. 
[ am no longer a suitor, to, kneel and use 
honeyed words. No! no! that period is gone 
by. It is now your turn to sue and gupplicate. 
There are many, many rough, dismal miles of 
wilderness between you and your home. No 
friend can start up from the ground to save you ; 
no hand can wrest you from my grasp. I will 
and do throw off the mask. Know that you 

° 


© 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


are in my power, and can expect no mercy — 
You love the man I hate with intense hatred. 
Were it no more than to punish, crush, humili- 
ate him, you should not be pitied or saved.” 

‘‘TImagine, Mademoiselle Adelaide, that I 
have said the same words to you,” exclaimed 

the commissary. 

‘*Do not touch me !’’ cried Adelaide, -terri- 
fied at what she had heard, as Hubert endeavor- 
ed to grasp her arm. ‘‘ There is poison in the 
foul contact !”’ 

‘“‘ Offer me no indignity,’ said Helen, re- 
treating from Lesage. ‘‘ Remember that you 
may feel his vengeance.”’ 

‘“« Whose ?”’ exclaimed Lesage, disdainfully. 

‘¢ You know who,’’ answered Helen. 

‘* Stuff, nonsense, foolery ! I care not for Del- 
croix. He is a renegade, a felon, and a—a—’’ 

‘« Nay ; he is none of those you have named. 
I deny the charge,’’ retorted Helen. 

‘©Q, that Pierre Moran was here!’’ said 
Adelaide, half frantic with fear. 

“« Cease to vex yourself about him. He ‘is 
not needed. Iam the hero of this occasion,”’ 
said the commissary. | 

‘‘ You see that it is of no use to struggle 
with destiny,’ resumed Lesage. ‘‘ You have 
lost in this game; I have won; submit grace- 
fully. It were folly to attempt to elude me now. 

Shudder, if you will; look around you, expect- 
ing some strange rescue ; or call on Heaven, as 
allforlorn damsels do. How very singular that 
Heaven never hears such prayers !”’ 

‘“‘Tt~does hear them often, unfeeling and 
blasphemous monster !’’ cried Helen. 

‘Be merciful—spare us—take us back to 
our friends !”” exclaimed Adelaide, falling upon 
her knees. 

‘¢ You look beautifully in that charming at- 
titude,’’ said the commissary. 

“Tf it would avail aught, I would most 
earnestly join in the petition; but alas, what 
prayers or tears could move such beings to the 
exercise of common humanity!” said Helen; 
and then turning to the commissary, she ex- 
claimed, in tones of touching entreaty : ‘‘ Have 
you no feeling of honor, no remains of goodness 


95 


to make you yet a man—no finer sensibilities to 
be awakened—no relentings—no tender pity— 
no soft remembrance of a mother’s or a sister’s 
love?” 

‘‘He is guilty of nothing of the kind 
said Lesage. ‘‘ You but waste words—you do 
not, cannot move us; and Heaven is not pro- 


1? 


pitious.”’ 

‘“‘ Heaven is propitious !’’ exclaimed a voice, 
which made the flushed cheeks of Lesage grow 
deadly pale. ‘‘ Heayen is propitious ”’ 

Before the captain had recovered from the 
first stupor of astonishment, the breech of the 
Rover’s rifle had fallen upon his head, and 
beaten him to the ground. 

‘“«'Phat’s for you!” cried Pierre Moran, 
dealing the commissary a blow which laid him 
senseless beside his companion in guilt. 

Helen’s eyes fell upon Henri ; she clasped her 
hands, looked up to heaven, and the next mo- 
ment lay insensible in the arms of the Rover ; 
while Adelaide, embraced alternately by Pierre 
and her father, was weeping in the excess 
of her joy. 

During this time Boisbriant and Red-Shoe 
secured Lesage and the commissary, having" 
bound their hands firmly behind them. The 
captain was the first to recover from the effects 
of his punishment. 

‘‘ What means this violence?’ he exclaimed, 
calling all his effrontery to his aid, and resolvy- 
ing to put the best face upon the matter to 
the last. - 

‘Tt means,’ said Boisbriant, sternly, ‘‘ that 
you have been caught in your villany, and that 
your career in Louisiana is brought to a close.”’ 

‘‘That your sun is setting, and your night 
coming on, as I told you,” added the Rover. 

‘A thousand bitter maledictions upon your 
head !”’ exclaimed Lesage, literally gnashing his 
teeth until his mouth was white with foam.— 
“Tf my own fiat could hurl you down to the 
deepest depths of tbe pit, you would soon be 
writhing beneath the tortures of the quenchless 
flame, and the worm that dieth not. * You have 
baffied me ; always baffled me; and now you 
dive to rejoice in your luck, and exult over my 


96 


downfall.” The captain paused to gather calm- 
ness enough to proceed, and then went on with 
increasing energy. ‘‘ But Iam not dead yet. 
I may live many years, and perhaps may walk 
over your grave—and perchance I may yet help 
to lay you there. Fool that I was, not to have 
taken better aim, and sent you out of my way 
forever |” 

‘* Do not say too much,”’ replied Henri, ‘‘ for 
the bad blogd in my heart is stirred up enough 
already. SoonT shall not be able to control 
‘my actions. I can scarcely keep my hands 
from doing what should be done by the public 
executioner. 
to madness, and almost makes me a maniac in 
my thirst for vengeance, is the wrong tHat you 
have heaped upon these defenceless maidens. 
If there is anything under the canopy of heaven 
that I ever desired, it is to slay you outright, 
and without mercy. Pierre Moran, take hold 
of me, or [ shall commit a murder.”’ 

‘* May I die by inches, if I so much as lift a 
finger td restrain you from sinking your toma- 
hawk into his head !’’ cried Pierre, stoutly be- 

stowing a hearty kick upon the commissary, by 
way of emphasis. 
«Ask me,” he continued, ‘to hold him 
while you scalp him alive, and curse me if I 
don’t do it !”’ 

‘“‘T protest against such ruffianism !”’ 
Hubert, furiously. 

‘«So these dear girls protested against yours, 
and you were deaf to their moving appeals, 
which would have moved the heart of a brute,” 
added Moran, fiercely. 

‘« They pleaded your merey on bended knees, 
and you, in the redundance of your diabolical 
cruelty, laughed them toscorn. Protest, if you 
will—keep on protesting, and see what it will 
avail. By all that is sacred and holy, if Bois- 
briant will consent, I will hang you to the near- 
est tree—you and your companion in guilt.”’ 

‘«T appeal to you for protection,”’ said Hubert. 

‘* You do not deserve it,’’ replied Boisbriant. 

‘Then you consent ?”’ exclaimed Pierre.— 
“We will have them trussed up in thirty 
seconds |” 


cried 


But that which most lashes me | 
‘in the hour of our downfall, you turn and curse 





THE WHITE ROVER. 


«Mercy! mercy!’ shrieked the commissary. 
‘*T have been led into crime by this villain be- 
side me. Punish him, and spare me.”’ 

‘Tt is well for you to turn against me !”’ cried 
Lesage. ‘‘It is excellently well for you to call 
me a villain. O, it is manly—it is noble—it 
is the part of a friend,” sneered Lesage. 

‘‘T curse you most bitterly,’ continued Hu- 
bert, in the agony of his fear. ‘‘I curse you 
for an unmitigated scoundrel—the author of my 
ruin !” 

‘‘ Craven-hearted traitor !’’ returned the cap- 
tain. ‘‘ You have been as ready, as eager and 
designing in these matters as myself, and now, 


me. ©, but I will remember it, Hubert. I 
will expose you. I will tell all your plottings 
against De Bienville, and of the letters you 
have ‘written, and of the lies you have told the 
ministry—I’ll tell it all, and we will see who is 
the greater villain of the two. Ha! ha! you 
wished to be appointed governor, did you! A ~ 
fine governor ! an excellent governor! a brave 
governor ! a. moral governor !”’ 

‘‘ And you wished to kill Henri Delaroix: be- 
cause he stood in your way. You perjured . 
yourself, and made others to perjure themselves. 
You bought up the negroes, and you produced 
a piece of bark, containing characters made 
merely to beguile time, and which you well 
knew proved nothing ; and you turned those 
harmless diagrams into damning evidences of 
guilt. You hired an assassin, also, to accom- 
plish what your treachery had failed to do — 
What do you say to this, Chef Menteur ?”’ 
rejoined the commissary. 

‘« Tf .we set them at liberty they will soon be 
ready to kill each other,”’ said Pierre. 

‘‘ Chef Menteur,’’ said Red-Shoe, who had 
until this time been a silent and attentive list- 
ener, ‘‘you have been a very bad man—a 
snake in the grass—and your heart is not so 
big as a woman’s. You are not fit to live, and | 
you would die like a squaw. The happy 
grounds will not be open to you, and there will 
be no canoe to carry you across to the land of 
bright shadows.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE GRAND DENOUEMENT. 


> 


We scarcely need pause to explain the sudden 
appearance of the foresters. The kind reader 
will by a natural and easy deduction, arrive at 
the truth of the matter. Led on by Boisbriant, 
they had reached the vicinity of the encampment 
in time to witness a portion-of the scene which 
had ensued between the captain, the commissary, 
and the maidens. Boisbriant, Ridelle, and Red- 
Shoe had stayed near Lesage, while the Rover 
and Pierre had followed the commissary. They 
had seen the mademoiselles fall unconsciously 
into his hands—and the whole party had silently 
closed up around the villains and their intended 
victims, when the events transpired just related. 

‘This is a pleasant spot ; let us encamp for 
the night,” said Boisbriant. 

All parties gladly acquiesced in the proposal. 
A large pile of wood was shortly collected—a 
cheerful blaze soon cast its ruddy light upon the 
surrounding forest. Many green boughs were 
cut and laid upon the ground, and blankets 
spread upon those, until an air of comfort seemed 
to breathe around them all. During these pre- 


happiness experienced by the lovers and the 
rescued maidens. The fierce, vindictive looks 
of the two prisoners alone marred the general 
feeling of pleasure. 

‘‘T hear the sound of horses’ feet,’’ said Red- 
Shoe, putting his ear close to the earth. The 
mademoiselles glanced at their lovers in alarm. 

‘‘ Tt is true,’ said the Rover. ‘‘ I can hear 
them myself, and there are many of them.” 

‘“‘T will go and reconnoitre,” said Onalaska, 
and immediately left them. The other foresters 
cocked their rifles, and awaited with much anx- 
iety the result. Presently the footsteps grew 
more distinct, and the sound of voices was 
plainly heard. 

‘They are Frenchmen !”’ exclaimed Boisbriant. 

The agreeable surprise of the foresters it is no 
easy matter to describe, when they perceived a 
large cavalcade advancing, composed of the fol- 
lowing characters, viz., de Bienville, Father 
Davion, Madame Mablois and La Glorieuse ; 
while the reat was brought up by twenty well 
mounted Frenchmen, and thirteen Natchez war- 


parations there was much talking, and much |riors, the renegade included in the number.— 


98 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


The governor was engaged in earnest conversa-| ‘‘ So much the better,” continued de Bienville, 


tion with Red-Shoe, as he advanced, and was 
prepared for what he now beheld. 
‘This is indeed a surprise,” exclaimed Ridelle. 

‘“« Yes,” replied the governor, smiling, ‘‘ it is 
a double surprise; for [ am quite as much or 
more surprised, than you are. Henri, my brave 
boy, step forward, and let me speak to you.” 

The governor’s voice shook with emotion as 
he spoke. ; | 

Henri advanced a step, and de Bienville has- 
tily disniounted. 

‘‘ Sacre Dieu !”’ exclaimed the governor, gaz- 
ing earnestly at the White Rover. ‘The very 
face—the very form—the very expression— 
Henri, Henri, behold your father’s brother. I 
am your uncle, and your father’s name was 
Iberville—the noble—the fearless—the gener- 
ous—the selfsacrificing Iberville, who was dear 
to me as my own life.”’ 

De Bienville ceased, overcome by his feelings. 
Large tears coursed down his cheeks. 

Henri stood like one astounded. He neither 
moved nor spoke ; surprise kept him dumb. 

‘Yes, you are an Iberville, every inch an 
Iberville,’’ continued the governor, proudly em- 
bracing Henri. ‘‘I might have known it by 
your noble figure and lofty bearing; by your 
fearless spirit, and by the strong resemblance.” 

‘*Mon Dieu! I am bewildered,”’ exclaimed 
our hero, at last. ‘* This cannot be true.”’ 

‘* Tt is trueas holy writ,”’ said Madame Ma- 
blo is, taking Henri’s hand. 

«And you are—” began our hero. 

“¢ Your mother, Henri !”’ 

The Rover could no longer govern his emo- 
tions. Kneeling at the feet of Madame Mablois, 
he wept like a child. 

‘* Since you give me the assurance, I can no 
longer doubt,” he articulated, at length. 

‘* My good friends,”’ said the governor, wiping 
his eyes and laying his hand upon the Rover’s 
head, ‘‘ it is necessary that I should explain this 
mystery. It was probably never known to one 
of you, that Iberville,my gallant brother, brought 
with him a fair wife to the shores of Louisiana.’ 

‘* T knew it; he told me so with his own lips,”’ 
interrupted Boisbriant. 


“but I did not know it. You will naturally ask 
why the fact of the marriage was kept.a secret. 
Madame Mablois will tell you all.” 

‘« Listen, and the whole is soon made plain,” 
said Madame Mablois. ‘‘I was born in Paris. 
My father, the Chevalier de Henriville, was im- 
mensely rich. I was his only child. He wasa 
man of eccentric habits and strong prejudices. 
It was a part of his character that when he had 
once formed an opinion upon a particular sub- 
ject, he never changed it. One of his favorite 
ideas was that of marrying me to the son of a 
wealthy nobleman; a gentleman of dissolute 
habits and no fixed principles, and extremely 
ugly in person. Of all the young noblemen I 
knew, he was the one I held in the least esteem, 
or to speak more to the point, I utterly despised 
him. This person professed to love me as ar- 
dently as I hated him. My father wished me to 
wed him without delay. Irefused, and he vowed 
to disown and disinherit me. I had already met 
de Iberville, and loved him, and listened with 
pleasure to his vows of unceasing constancy, 
although I was at that time aware that a hope- 
less feud existed between the father of Iberville 
and my own. To influence my mind, my father 
showed me a will, drawn up in due form, by 
which I was to be disinherited, if I married 
against his wishes. Upon the evening of that 
very day, I was secretly married: to Iberville. 
A few months after taking this step, to escape 
from the tyranny of my father, and the impor- 
tunities of the man he had selected for my hus- 
band, I left Paris forever, and set sail for the 
new colony with my beloved Iberville. On the 
passage he exacted from me a solemn promise 
to keep the fact of our marriage a secret until 
after the decease of my father, the chevalier. 

‘“«*T shall never touch a franc of his long- 
hoarded wealth,’ said my nusband; ‘but the 
helpless being that will shortly demand your 
care, may one day feel the need of riches. I have 
long felt—an imperfect organization has pressed 
home the conviction with prophetic truth—that 
I shall not live to see my child arrive at matu- 
rity. Let us then, my dear wife, keep our mar- 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


riage a secret known only to outselves and a 
few friends in the new country to which we are 
going. Your father may relent and leave the 
bulk of his vast wealth to you, which he will 
never do if he learns that you have linked your 
fortunes to one of my father’s family, as you are 


aware that a deadly feud exists between the. 


heads of the two families—a quarrel which leaves 
us nothing to hope in the way of a reconciliation.’ 

** Knowing the noble motives which influenced 
my husband, [ made a solemn agreement with 
him never to divulge the fact of our marriage in 


any manner, so that it could reach the ears of 


my father. Iberville was greatly beloved by the 
Natchez. A beautiful cottage was reared for 
me in one of their pleasant villages. - My hus- 
band passed much of his time with me, and I 
was happy. I was a mother also; and Iberville 
idolized ovr Henri. He was a year old when 
his father died. I confided a small part of my 
secret to Father Davion—enough to secure his 
aid, and my boy was taught many things by 
him which [ could not have leatned him. I 
gave him the name of Henri Deleroix, by which 
he has ever since been known, and studiously 
concealing from him the fact that I was his 
mother. 

**You all know how much interest I have 
ever manifested in this youth, and truly I have 
kept my promise to Iberville. Four days ago I 
received the intelligence that my father had de- 
ceased at an advanced age, leaving all his wealth 
to me; for [ had informed him in various ways 
and at different times, that I was still living. — 
Henri is now rich, and no stain rests upon his 
name. ‘The nearest that I ever came abandon- 
ing my purpose of keeping our marriage from 
the governor, was when my boy was in prison. 
But happily everything was ordered for the best. 
I was instrumental in his escape, and was not 
obliged to divulge the secret of his birth at that 
time. ‘ 

‘“‘ When I received news that my father Was 
no more, there was no longer any need that I 
should observe secrecy. I explained all to his 
ex¢ellency, and burning with impatience to em- 
brace his nephew, he set out at once—took the 
trail, and has happily found him.”’ 


joined the hands of the two. 


99 


Helen wept plentifully during this recital, and 
Boisbriant was observed to gaze steadily at her. 
‘* Father Davion,”’ he said, at length, in an ex- 
cited manner, ‘‘can you tell me anything in 
relation to the history of this young lady?” 

‘* Alas! I know no more of her history than 
that she was left in my cabin during my absence, 
about sixteen years ago. She was then about 
two years of age, and I should judge, had been 
living among the Indians for some time. She 
had upon her neck a small locket, containing a 
miniature,’ replied Father Davion. 

‘* Where is the miniature?’’ asked Boisbriant, 
still more excited. 

‘“‘ Here,” said Helen, drawing a locket from 
her bosom. ‘‘I have worn it ever since I can 
remember.” 

‘Tt is she—my Irene! Helen, you are my 
child !”’ and Boisbriant caught Helen to his heart 
and held her in a long and loving embrace. 

‘“T am too happy,” murmured Helen. <<‘ It 
is joy indeed to feel a father’s love at last.’ 

Boisbriant made a significant motion to de 
Bienville. The latter took Henri’s hand and 
led him towards Helen, and then Boisbriant 
Madame Mablois 
smilingly brought forward Father Davion, and 
left him directly in front of the parties. 

‘« Stop one moment, if you please,’’ said Ri- 
delle. ‘‘ There is more to be done in that way.”’ 

Saying these words, he proceeded to place 
Adelaide and Pierre Moran in the same order. 

Obedient to the order of de Bienville, the sol- 
diers and warriors closed up around the parties. 
Father Davion wiped his eyes for the hun- 
dredth time, and was about to say something, 
when Madame Mablois stopped him with : 

‘Stop another moment, good father. Some- 
thing more can be done I believe. Red-Shoe,”’ 
she added, in a whisper, approaching the chief 
softly, and smiling, ‘‘ would you not like to wed 
the princess ?”’ 

‘* Does the sun love to kiss the clouds, or the 
stars to look down upon the earth at night? 
Does the grass love the gentle rains, or do the 
flowers turn toward the light ?’’ he asked. 

‘¢ La Glorieuse,’’ continued Soft-Voice, ‘‘ the 


100 


great war chief loves you better than the grass 
loves the gentle rain, or the flowers love the 
light. Come and wed him, that all may be hap- 
py, and not a single virtuous heart beat sadly 
here to-night.” | 
La Glorieuse extended her hand to Red-Shoe. 
Soft-Voice formed them into a line with the 


THE WHITE ROVER. 


Boys, hurrah again, while the old gentleman 
clears his throat; he’s got an extraordinary 
cold !”’ | ) 
The old woods shook once more to the hearty 
cheers of the soldiers, and the triumphant yells 
of the warriors. 
By this time Father Davion had succeeded 


others, and Father Davion wiped his eyes again. | in getting his pipes tolerably clear, and didn’t 


Boisbriant turned to the French and Indians. 

‘*My fine fellows, open your mouths and 
shout as loud as you can. Now—go it again— 
louder—louder—twice as loud. That’ll do ; very 
good.” 

Such shouts as went up from the forest at that 
time were never heard before, or since. 

‘‘ Wait a little longer, Father Davion, and 
you may go ahead with full speed,’’ added Bois- 
briant. ‘‘ Sergeant Dumont and Corporal Rion, 
clap your hands upon those two rascals, lying 
on the ground there, and bring them up here so 
they can see well,’’ he added. 

“Come up here, my beauties,”’ said the ser- 
geant. ‘‘ Take hold of his feet, corporal—tug 
him along. Don’t kick, captain, it makes it 
harder for us, and it’s a wedding you’re going 
to.” 

In half a minute the captain and the com- 
missary were placed in front of the persons to 
be wedded. } 

‘«T wish I was dead and covered up in the 
ground,’’ muttered the captain, fiercely grinding 
his:teeth with rage. 

‘‘ | wish you were,” returned the commissary, 
with an oath. 

Father Davion wiped his eyes yet again, and 
essayed to speak ; but the sounds died away in 
his throat. 

‘«Tt can’t be done,’’ he managed to articulate 
at length. 

‘* But it must be done!’’ exclaimed Pierre 
Moran, impatiently, looking at the blushing 
Adelaide. 

‘Of course it must,’’ added Boisbriant, ‘‘and 
a fine affair it seems to be, if I’m any judge. 


THE 


break down but once or twice during the whole 
ceremony. 

Mutual embraces and congratulations followed, 
and not one of the happy party slept a wink 
that night. 

The next day they set out on their return to 
New Orleans; and though they were more than 
two tlays on the way, they all considered it a 
pleasant journey. 

Hubert was sent home to France by order of 
the governor, where he was deprived. of his of- 
fice, and otherwise disgraced. He never showed 
his face in the colony again. | 

Lesage was first cashiered, and then impris- 
oned for a few months. He was afterwards shot 
by Htte-Actal, the renegade. Several of the 
Banbara negroes were arrested and executed. 
The White Rover visited the different Indian 
tribes, and made peace among them by dis- 
tributing presents, and making some concessions 
which they had insisted upon. The innocence 
of Henri was of course fully established. 

The renegade left off many of his vicious hab- 
its; and finally, by the influence of La Glori- 
euse was again taken into favor with his people. | 

We can add but little more. We take leave 
of our characters, leaving them happy and con- 
tented. We feel that it would be useless to 
dwell longer on the fortunes of Helen, and 
Adelaide, when united to such noble and gen- 
erous hearts. | | 

Truly grateful to the gentle readers who have 


followed us thus far, we sincerely hope they have 


been interested in the fortunes of the Wuirs 
Rover, and the fair maidens of Louisiana. 


BE Niki: : 


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Pialeies! 
Bet Nd ot 





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